


The Errant Ones

by Zaadi



Series: Alternate Third Series [8]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows, Fantasy, Gen, Pelleas & Ettare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of fruitless searching, Uther finally discovers Arthur's whereabouts in the kingdom of Cameliard.  Arthur, having served there incognito, is exposed by the oncoming army of Camelot.  Meanwhile, Camelot must contend with another powerful sorcerer in Uther's absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Errant Ones

**Author's Note:**

> My Alternate Third Series is exactly what it says on the tin: stories, conceived of as a series, branching off from the end of the second season of Merlin. I first started these stories in the break between second and third seasons, and, being a perfectionist, found that each story took longer than anticipated to write. So subsequent canon seasons aired while I was still writing. However, I was having fun and liked where my stories were going, and so continue to write. What this effectively means is that only the first two seasons of Merlin are canon as far as the Alternate Third Series is concerned. Additionally, I approached this series as a series, or perhaps sequence might be a better word since I did not want any given story to be interchangeable with any other random story. Sometimes something will happen in one story that has repercussions in subsequent stories, although I tried not to make my stories arc-heavy; each story does have its own beginning, middle and end. Anyway, Arthur knows about Merlin's magic at this point, but he only recently found out; it's a process.

**3.8 The Errant Ones**

* * *

**_*PROLOGUE*_ **

Lancelot pushed his way through the crush of people inside the tavern until he found a vacant chair.  The village was large, and he dared hope that someone could help him.

“A _what?_ ” the barkeep asked.

“A manticore,” Lancelot repeated loudly, enunciating each syllable.  “It’s a giant . . . cat, with a man’s face and dragon wings.  And spikes on its tail.”

The patrons on either side of Lancelot glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, and the barkeep concentrated on wiping out an empty mug.

“It did come this way?” Lancelot said.  The barkeep continued cleaning the mug.

“A monster mighta passed through these parts,” the barkeep finally said.  “Didn’t stop to chat.”

The man on Lancelot’s left gulped the last of his ale and stood, pounding his mug down on the wood.

“It just came,” the barkeep said, “ate, and left.”  He picked up the other man’s mug and, clamping it in the same large hand as the mug he’d been wiping, walked away. 

Lancelot realized he should have asked for food before asking questions: he was starving.  But he was determined to find Merlin and Arthur, so decided to try his luck outside with the hostlers, or maybe some other villagers.  The night air was chill and damp; puddles formed in low places; remnant rainwater dripped off roofs, and fog loitered.  As he walked, mud sucked at his boots, but his thoughts distracted him: magical creatures were usually gossip-fodder for years, and it should have been harder to distinguish the true stories from the embellished ones.  That there were few stories—that no one wanted to talk—it must’ve been bad.  Or the barkeep really had told him all there was to tell.  Or the manticore was still alive and killing.  Which meant that Arthur and Merlin . . .

Lancelot buried the thought.

“Are you looking to die?” a woman’s voice said in the darkness by the stables.

Lancelot turned around and jumped back, startled—she was surprisingly close.  She had dark eyes and even darker hair, knotted at the nape of her neck.  She wore a tattered coat over a baggy dress—clothes which hung on her, large and lumpy, as if she wore something underneath.  She repeated her question.

“Do you ask everyone that?” Lancelot said.

“Only people chasing man-eating monsters.”  She circled him and he noticed her sturdy, muddy black boots.

“Who else asked about a manticore?” he said when she’d come back around to face him.

She eyed him.  “Dead men.”

“No,” Lancelot heard himself say.  “That can’t . . . you’re lying.”

Her face softened and her eyes turned curious.  And then she casually said, “You travel alone?” gazing at the surrounding night, the stables behind him.

Lancelot said nothing.

“Of course, luckier men were also chasing it.”  She met Lancelot’s eyes.  “And I happen to know the sorcerer and the warrior who destroyed it.”

“Where?” Lancelot said, springing forward and grasping her shoulders.  “Where are they?”  The pommel of his sword brushed against her forearm, and he remembered his courtesy. “Please,” he released her.  “I need to find them.”

But Caradoc just eyed him again.

 

 *******   **  
**

Arthur spotted Blaise’s back through the trees—the sorcerer looked straight ahead, his dark blue robes heavy and unmoving in the soft breeze Arthur felt against his cheek.  It would rain later.

As Arthur approached, he saw Merlin some distance beyond, in a clearing.  Weak sunlight glowed on the back of Merlin’s extended, open hand.  Light overwhelmed Merlin’s eyes—the golden telltale of sorcery Uther had always warned about—and from the ground a plant burst forth, grew in a matter of seconds and blossomed flowers that wilted and fell, pollen lost in the speed, never to be planted elsewhere.  Several leaves fell off as well, and the plant grew larger.  Merlin smiled to himself.

“If he’s smart about it,” Blaise said, confirming he knew of Arthur’s presence, “he’ll care more about whether the roots are growing.”

“He doesn’t know we’re here?”

Blaise poked the air in front of him with one calloused, ink-stained finger—the air rippled and shuddered.  “After twenty years of study, one learns a few tricks.”

Arthur reached forward.  He felt like he was pushing against the hide of an animal, though his fingertips felt no texture; the air again rippled.  “What is he doing?” Arthur asked.

Blaise opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered.  They stared silently ahead as Merlin’s hands chased vines around the forest floor, weaving them into intricate knots.

“Do you know how long it took me to learn that?” Blaise finally said.  “Ten years.  And I had to work for it.”

Merlin reached up and shouted a spell to the sky.  Arthur looked up and saw the clouds darken and move, spiraling around the spot above Merlin.

“Maybe I was just a poor student,” Blaise continued.  “Although, it wasn’t like I really had a teacher . . .”

Blaise’s attention suddenly darted past Merlin.  Arthur looked in the same direction and thought he saw a dark-haired woman in a red dress.  But Arthur blinked.  And there was nothing.

Rain fell around Merlin.

“Was that Ninaeve?  The priestess—checking up on us?” Arthur asked.

“No, that was someone else,” Blaise muttered.  And then more clearly, as if his train of thought had not been interrupted, “Not a lot of people know enough magic to teach it.”  

Arthur let it pass.  A torrent hit them then, while Merlin stood in a center of dry calm.

“Of course,” Blaise shouted, “I wasn’t born with magic.”  He paused, as though he understand whatever game Merlin was playing—the rain stopped and Blaise continued in his normal tone.  “No innate prerogative to learn.”

“You chose to endanger yourself?”  Arthur brushed the wetness off his sleeves.  “Was that why you left Camelot?”

Blaise’s face darkened.  “Someone had to keep the knowledge alive,” he said quietly.  “Anyway, Merlin found the book with these spells yesterday.”

“So now he’s practicing showing off?”

“No,” Blaise said warily.  “I think he’s breathing.”

 

~*~

 

Morgana tried to care about whatever was being said in front of her.  But what did it matter if she did?  Uther wanted her there in the great hall—a pretty face among all the rough knights and wizened elders.  _It puts people at ease_ , he had once told her—how old had she been then?  So.  That’s what she was doing.  Making people easy.  Making them amenable—malleable.  She used to like being in the thick of things.  Until she realized that Uther listened to no one but Uther.  And she was merely his ward, his pretty little tool—she had no say.  Arthur used to listen to her—sometimes he still did—but Arthur was missing.

Gaius asked a question.  The petitioner responded.  Uther sat slumped in his throne, silent and withdrawn. 

Everyone was worried about Arthur—it wasn’t like him to abandon Camelot.  Uther probably thought him dead.  _Afraid you’ve lost your precious dynasty,_ Morgana thought smugly—and immediately regretted it.  Because whatever else, Uther genuinely loved his son.

It was his only saving grace. 

A woman was crying.  Silently, unremarked by the crowd of nobles amongst whom she stood.  Morgana tried to recall her name.  She was a noblewoman, as tall as the women around her, brown-skinned and straight-spined; she wore a rich blue dress with pink and yellow lace trimmings, but her brunette hair had been hastily tied up and was falling down around her face.  She brought a kerchief to one eye and wiped a tear away.  Morgana tried to place her—her brother had died some time ago—killed by Morgause when she had challenged Arthur . . . Ettare, that was her name, and she was staring horrified at her kerchief.

A sound disrupted the hall, but Morgana only registered it as an afterthought: Sir Lamorack bursting through the entrance and colliding with the exiting petitioner.  Instead, Morgana watched Ettare, who quickly folded her kerchief, hastily tucked it into her sleeve, gently probed her eyes with a finger, and then clasped her hands and drew herself up, a proper noblewoman—clearly distraught.  While everyone focused on Sir Lamorack.

Who had news of Arthur.

“It’s from Bayard,” Lamorack explained to Uther, who had snatched the letter out of Lamorack’s hands.  Uther’s eyes darted back and forth as he paced the courtroom, more animated than he had been in weeks.

“He is sure?” Uther said.

“He swears,” Lamorack said.  “But I’ve sent spies up anyway to check.”

Morgana couldn’t tell if Uther had heard—he kept pacing, kept reading.  The silence of the room became palpable.

“No.”  Uther stopped.  “Leodogran will _not_ get away with this.  Assemble the army—we ride for Cameliard.”

 

~*~

 

A weary spy was standing before King Leodogran when Princess Anna entered her father’s private reception room.  It was a round room adjacent to Leodogran’s chambers, and Anna came in through the door connecting the two.  Her white dress absorbed the bleak light of the overcast sky coming from the open window opposite the King’s desk.  Two large tapestries hung on each side of the window, complimenting the one hanging behind the King.  The window also had two chairs on either side, along with several stacks of books.  Five burning torches leaned out from the stone walls, and a moist breeze flit against all three faces.

Anna sat down in the chair beside Leodogran’s desk and ran a finger under her tiara, sweeping back wisps of hair that had escaped her braid.  She glanced at the parchment piled neatly on the wooden table; some were stacked flat, some were rolled alongside vellum scrolls.  Quills and inkwells were lined on Leodogran’s right, next to his clasped hands, as he leaned patiently forward, careful not to smear the ink of his interrupted correspondence.

“You have news?” Anna said formally to the spy once she was situated.

“I have, my Lord,” the spy replied to the King.

~

Arthur blinked a drop of sweat from his eyes as he returned from daily exercises.  He walked alone down the corridor to the small room he and Merlin shared.  As he entered, a bolt hit the wood of the door.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Anna said, crossbow in hand.  She sat on his bed wearing a simple white dress, and a tiara Arthur had only seen her wear on formal occasions.  As she spoke, she pulled a second bolt from the gauntlet around her forearm.

Arthur closed his eyes with resignation and shut the door.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed and looked at her.

“For what?”  Anna loaded the bolt without taking her eyes off Arthur.  “For lying about who you are?”

“I’ve shown you who I am.”

Anna took aim.  “Then for bringing a belligerent, obtuse warlord to our gates.”

They stared at each other, neither budging.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Arthur said simply.

Anna held her aim.

 

~*~

 

“ _Get out!_ ”

Gwen heard Ettare’s voice through the closed door as she arrived at the Lady’s chambers.  She hesitated, wondering if she should wait a moment—or an hour—before delivering Morgana’s flowers; but a maidservant ran out, crashing into Gwen and crushing the flowers. 

“Is everything all right?” Gwen asked, unable to recall the girl’s name.  The girl looked terrified and guilt-ridden, and fled.  Gwen stared after her, but there was nothing she could do.  So she brushed off her dress and rearranged the flowers to hide the damaged ones, and knocked on Ettare’s door.

“ _Go away!_ ”

“Please, Lady Ettare.  Lady Morgana sent me.”

The door cracked open and Lady Ettare peeked out.  “The Lady Morgana?  Wha—why?”

“She thought you seemed upset yesterday, and hasn’t seen you about today, so—here,” Gwen offered the bouquet.  “She wanted you to have these.”

Ettare considered Gwen in awkward silence before stepping back to let her enter.

Her room was fairly small for a noblewoman, but mostly clean.  Ettare, however, was disheveled.  Her hair was uncombed, loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were swollen and red.  She cautiously raised a finger, exploring each eye, and then limped over to a window, beneath which was lined a dozen empty vases.

“I think one of these should do,” Ettare said, and Gwen noticed the Lady’s right shoe in the middle of the floor.  

“Here, let me,” Gwen rushed forward, flowers still in hand, and picked up a silver vase, whorls and knots twisted around it in decoration.  It rattled.  Confused, Gwen emptied the contents onto the table: a broken string of pearls.

“Don’t bother about those,” Ettare said, snatching up the string and loose pearls and concealing them in clutched fists.

“It must have been a lovely necklace,” was the only thing Gwen could think to say.  She carefully placed Morgana’s flowers in the vase and fussed with the arrangement.  Ettare limped back over to the window.  Gwen glanced at the fireplace, where a bundle of fresh black flowers—something Gwen had never before seen—lay on a pile of ashes.  She thought she saw a gleam of red—a ruby ring?—and counted three dead, singed flowers hugging the stones. 

“I didn’t notice,” Ettare replied curtly, opening her hand outside the window and letting the pearls fall to the ground below.  “You will thank Lady Morgana for me.”

“Of course,” Gwen said.  She hesitated; but finally stepped closer to Ettare.  “Are you sure you’re fine?  I know it’s not my place, but Lady Morgana commanded me—”

“You will thank Lady Morgana for me,” Ettare repeated as her eyes began to water; she turned away from Gwen, whispering, “no one can help me.”  She lifted her hand to her eye and caught something small, pinching it between her fingers.

“Lady Ettare!” Sir Lamorack’s voice resounded from the other side of her door as he pounded on it.  Startled, Ettare glanced at Gwen, the pained expression of a trapped deer warping her face.  Gwen felt helpless as the door flew open and six knights filed into the room, led by Sir Lamorack.  Behind them, head down, followed Ettare’s maidservant. 

“Lady Ettare,” Sir Lamorack announced, “you have been accused of practicing magic.”

“ _What?_ ” Ettare regained her composure and glared at the maidservant.  “ _By whom_?”

“Look at her right foot,” the girl said quietly, not meeting Ettare’s eye. 

“Lift your skirts please,” Lamorack said uncomfortably.

“I beg your pardon,” Ettare sneered, but her eyes were watering again.  Again she lifted her finger to gently poke at her eyes, but Lamorack grabbed her hand.  Gripping her right hand firmly, he brought his free hand to her face, lifting a tear gently away.

Except that it wasn’t a tear—it was a small, tear-shaped piece of glass.

“Please,” Ettare begged, “I’m not a witch—I’m not doing this to myself.”

Lamorack stepped back.  Cautiously, he pinched a corner of Ettare’s dress and slowly lifted the skirts just enough to reveal her feet—Ettare’s right foot was glass.

“Please,” Ettare begged again.

“Um, you,” Lamorack turned to the girl, “said there was a potion?”

“It’s under the bed,” she answered, with more assurance.  Lamorack nodded to one of the knights, who bent down and retrieved a small bowl with some plant in it, soaking in water.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Ettare said.  “That’s a family remedy.”

“Then you won’t mind if Gaius takes a look at it?” Lamorack asked.  Ettare drew herself up proudly and grimaced.

“Of course not,” she said through gritted teeth. 

Lamorack nodded.  “You’ll have to wait in the dungeons.  I’m sorry,” he said as the guards surrounded her.  She started to protest, but her eyes were watering again—another glass tear.  They escorted Ettare out and the maidservant followed, head hung low.  Gwen was left alone and ignored in the empty room.

 

~*~

 

The doors to the throne room boomed shut; Arthur tried to stand against them, but it was as if the impact shoved him forward—a misgiving of the imagination, he knew.  Leodogran stood by a window staring out, his hands clasped behind his back, the morning light unforgiving upon his stiff, pensive features.

“You wished to see me, Sire,” Arthur called across the room, feeling rooted to the spot. 

Leodogran lifted a brow.  “And yet I did not send for you.”

Arthur shifted on his feet.

“King Uther of Camelot rides for Cameliard,” Leodogran said, as if apprising the Captain of his Guard of a serious situation—or perhaps that was another trick of Arthur’s imagination.

“He comes looking for the son who disappeared from his ken, and when he finds you have been serving us, he will assume we have enchanted you.”  Leodogran turned to face Arthur.  “Do you know what Uther Pendragon does when he thinks magic has taken someone he loves?”

“I thought my men and I were in danger,” Arthur said tentatively.  “I couldn’t reveal my name.”  The distance felt too great, but Arthur didn’t know how to close it.

“And yesterday?” Leodogran stepped towards him.  “Did you believe you were in danger then?”

Arthur took one step forward and hesitated.  “No,” he said quietly.

“And did you feel in danger when you chose—of your own free will—to stay in Cameliard?”  Leodogran paced forward.  “Did you feel threatened into stayi—?”

“No.”  Arthur finally felt free to move.

“Then _why_ is Uther marching on my kingdom?”

“Camelot will not strike Cameliard—I swear.”

“Oh we’re long past your guarantees.”

“I can stop my father.”

“You can start a war.”

“I will fight—”

“Do. you. _know_ what Uther Pendragon does when he thinks magic has taken someone he loves?!” Leodogran exclaimed.  Arthur stood speechless.

“If you fight for me,” Leodogran continued, “you will convince him beyond reason that we have enchanted you.  If you plead for mercy on our behalf, he will think you are enchanted.  If you show anything less than intolerance for all magic, he will think you have been enchanted—Uther is on his way to free you from imprisonment.  Why did you stay, knowing the consequences?”

“I didn’t know this would happen.”

“You sojourn to an enemy’s keep and send no word as to your whereabouts or well-being?  What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought—” but Arthur had lost his clarity.  His throat became ice in his neck. 

“Inform your men,” the King said.

“I’m not leaving like this.”

“You’re not leaving at all.  At least not yet.  If you do, Uther will merely think that you have escaped and will just keep coming.”

“What are we going to do?” Arthur asked.

“What needs to be done,” Leodogran said, striding to his throne.  Arthur remained as Leodogran turned around.  The King stood silently, staring, until Arthur—defeated—accepted his dismissal.

Again the doors closed on Arthur’s back, but this time he was outside the great hall.  Leodogran collapsed onto his throne and rubbed his face.

From the door behind the throne, Blaise stepped forward.  “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I had hoped . . .” Leodogran closed his eyes.  “I had hoped I could keep on hoping.”

 

~*~

 

The council of Camelot stood arrayed to judge Lady Ettare.  Sir Ulfius, Uther’s officially-appointed steward, stepped forward as the doors opened and Ettare was escorted—limping and leaning on her guards—into the great hall.  Sirs Gylberd and Oswald flanked Ulfius on his right while Sirs Cynan and Andronic stood to his left.  Gaius was as far to the side as possible without disappearing into the gathered court.  When Lady Ettare stopped in front of Ulfius, she tried defiantly—desperately—to maintain her composure.  She seemed to wring her hands, but as Gaius looked closer, he saw that her right fingertips betrayed a singular sheen—glass.

“Lady Ettare,” Ulfius began.

“I’m not a witch,” Ettare interrupted, the harshness in her voice silencing Ulfius.

“Of course you’re not,” Morgana’s voice broke in from the far end of the room.  She marched up to Ulfius and placed herself between him and Ettare.  Sir Gylberd shifted in irritation and Oswald sighed audibly, but Ulfius waited patiently.

“Do you have evidence of Lady Ettare’s innocence?” Ulfius said, as though speaking to a child.

“Do you have evidence of guilt?  Or do you only have the word of a servant—I thought that counted for very little in Camelot.”

“Ettare’s personal maidservant is in a position to know,” Gaius stepped forward.  “And I thought you believed everyone’s word mattered.”

“You still don’t have proof—”

“I’m turning into _glass_!”  Ettare doubled forward in a spasm of pain.  The two guards at her side each reached for her; she batted them away, and they waited helplessly for her to recover.

“She’s been cursed,” Morgana said.  “You would condemn a woman for being the victim of witchcraft?”

“If Lady Ettare is the victim, then who is the perpetrator?” Andronic asked.  “And if a curse is upon us, then why is no one else afflicted?”  Morgana had no reply, and when she turned to Ettare, Ettare was crying—she brought her right hand up to her face, but then recoiled as the glass of her fingers touched her cheek.  A glass tear fell from her eye and hit the floor.

Lady Ettare opened her mouth—but had lost the will to speak.

“Gaius,” Ulfius said, “what was in the bowl beneath Lady Ettare’s bed?”

“Nightshade.  It looks as if she was trying to extract its poison—rather crudely, I might add.”

“A real witch would know how to use nightshade correctly,” Morgana said.

“Being new to sorcery is still practicing sorcery,” Oswald said.  “Perhaps she is in some contest with a more proficient witch.  She is involved somehow.”

“Who was the nightshade for?” Gaius asked Ettare.

“Myself—I—” Ettare stuttered, without conviction.

“Whom?” Ulfius stepped closer, but Ettare offered no elaboration.  “Magic is at work—that is undeniable,” he continued, “and you are only aiding the real sorcerer by concealing his identity.”

“Lady Ettare,” Gaius said gently, “something is going on—help us.”

Ettare squeezed her eyes shut, and this time a real tear rolled down her cheek.

“Pelleas,” she finally said.  “His name is Pelleas—but I didn’t—I didn’t know he could do _this_.”

 

~*~

 

“What do you think your father’s going to do?” Merlin whispered.

Arthur said nothing.  Gathered in the great hall, the murmuring court awaited the King.  Servants lit torches to compensate for the waning daylight, while nobles glanced at Arthur and Merlin, hoping the Captain of the Guard or Blaise’s apprentice might know something to confirm or refute the rumors that had been flying all day.  Arthur and Merlin stood off to the side, near the front of the hall, and around them, the nine knights who’d accompanied Arthur from Camelot whispered amongst themselves—none wore armor or weapons; they wore the fine clothes, appropriate to their obvious stature, that Cameliard had provided. 

Merlin nudged Arthur: Princess Anna entered the hall.  She wore a purple gown, and her tiara atop her cascading hair.  The full council followed immediately behind her, two by two.

Anna took her place in front of a chair beside the throne.  She stood, watching as Blaise placed himself behind her and the rest of the council split, half moving to one side of the room, half to the other—one, Alaric, made a point of standing next to Arthur.

The doors of the hall remained open; but Leodogran walked quietly in from the door behind the throne.  As all eyes turned to him, Merlin saw Caradoc, closest friend of the Princess, making her own quiet entrance—with Lancelot right behind her.  They moved discreetly to the side, near some servants.  Caradoc was dressed as a peasant and blended well, but Lancelot, in his travel-stained mail, was painfully incongruous.

Merlin glanced at Arthur, but Arthur was staring at Leodogran, who, like his daughter, remained standing.  Anna’s face was unreadable, but Merlin had no doubt she’d seen Caradoc come in.

Leodogran surveyed the silence, absorbing every stare. 

“Camelot marches on Cameliard,” he announced.

Murmurs erupted, stealth gasps of _what?_ _Why?_  Sir Madoc of Camelot inhaled sharply, Sir Rigel muttered an obscenity, Sir Taran instinctively reached to his side, and all nine knights looked around awkwardly.  Alaric and Cole of the council glared at Arthur.  Arthur shifted.  Merlin quickly looked to Lancelot, who nodded in confirmation.

“Do we know Uther’s intentions?”  Sir Idris of the council asked.

“Perhaps he comes in peace,” Alaric stated acidly.  “To make an ally of his enemy.”

“You’re not helping,” Erling, another councilman, whispered into Alaric’s ear.

“We can guess them,” Leodogran answered Idris, but addressed the court.  “It seems we have been keeping his son from his side.”

Like a wave, all faces turned to Arthur.  Arthur did not meet them; he looked to Leodogran and Anna, but their expressions still revealed nothing.  Anna, however, unlike her father, did return Arthur’s gaze.

“And when Uther retrieves his son,” Lucas the Old said from the opposite side of the room, “will he simply go, leaving so much magic unmolested?”

“We all know very well he won’t,” Alaric snapped.

Murmurs of agreement.  Arthur stepped forward to speak, but Merlin’s firm grip on his shoulder checked him; the nine knights drew tighter together.

“We have fought off invaders before,” Sir Cole said.  “Uther is no different.”

Arthur snorted before he could catch himself.

“Except,” Cole added, “that Uther has been idle.”

Again Arthur tried to jump forward to speak; again Merlin prevented him.

“Idleness is not the reason Camelot doesn’t have to fight off annual attacks,” Blaise sneered.

“So what?” Cole said.  “If an army marches against us, we are at war!”

“No!” Arthur pushed Merlin’s hand away.  “There will be no war.  I won’t allow it.” 

“How will you stop it?” Anna asked.  “In Camelot, does the Prince command the King?”

Leodogran lifted his hand, signaling silence.  “An army marches: we have no choice but to prepare for war,” he said.  “And hope our preparations come to naught.” 

Leodogran gave a final, hard look to everyone gathered, then exited through the same door from which he’d entered, Anna and Blaise trailing after.

“So this is what the word of _Arthur_ is worth,” Alaric hissed—Erling pulled at his elbow and gave Arthur an admonishing look before dragging Alaric through the small back door.  The rest of the council also followed Leodogran; Arthur remained, avoiding all eye-contact. His nine knights waited for his orders; he gave none.  The great hall emptied, accusatory glances thrown at Arthur by many, but by others, pained looks of deep betrayal.  Merlin watched.  He watched the nobles as they left, and he watched Arthur, knowing the inner turmoil that Arthur was burying. 

But in the shuffling crowd, unremarked by any around her, Merlin noticed a dark-haired woman in a red dress, staring at Arthur.  She reminded Merlin of the Priestess Ninaeve, and perhaps there was a resemblance—she caught Merlin’s eye for one instant and then vanished, as though no more than an apparition, with no one but Merlin—and Lancelot—staring at the space she’d occupied.  Merlin wondered why only they two had noticed her, thinking also that Lancelot had recognized her—but Lancelot avoided Merlin’s questioning stare and instead glanced around for Caradoc, who had also disappeared—to report to Anna, Merlin had no doubt.

“Wait in your rooms,” Arthur finally ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument, and Merlin followed him out into the vacant corridor where Arthur paused, as if lost.  Merlin glanced at the unassuming door that led back into the great hall, waiting for Lancelot to follow. 

Arthur abruptly—and briskly—walked away; Merlin chased after.  They walked in silence to the room they’d shared since finding themselves in Cameliard.  Leodogran had offered Arthur other accommodations, but Arthur had humbly refused.  As soon as they entered, Arthur paced to his bed, then to the window; Merlin glanced at the empty hallway and softly shut the door.

“We have to stop this,” Arthur paced back to his bed.  “I have to stop this,” he sat.

“This isn’t your fault,” Merlin said. 

Arthur looked up at Merlin, grateful and disbelieving.

“Won’t your father see reason?” Merlin asked.

Arthur’s expression turned condescending.  A small knock interrupted them—Lancelot pushed the door open hesitantly.  Arthur stood.

“Lancelot?  What are you doing here?” Arthur lightened momentarily.

“I promised I’d find you.”

“Well.  At least someone is doing something right,” Arthur sat back down on the bed.

“How close is Uther?” Merlin asked.

“A few days, maybe.  He nearly emptied Camelot, from what we heard.”

Arthur brought his hands together and rested his fingers against his lips.  “This can’t end in war.”

“What are you going to do?” Lancelot asked.

Arthur just sat unmoving.

 

~*~

 

Ettare’s right foot and calf were entirely glass, reflecting and refracting the candlelight of Gaius’s chambers.  Her eyes were red and raw, but she wasn’t crying.  “The nightshade was for Pelleas,” she said as Gaius scrutinized her foot and leg.  “I was going to finally invite him to my chambers.”

“How long has this been going on?” Gaius asked, standing up.

“Since Prince Arthur disappeared.  Or did you mean how long have I been turning to glass?  About two weeks, I suppose.”

“ _May you’re body soon match your heart—as hard as stone and as cold as ice,_ ” Morgana read from a small strip of parchment before tossing it back onto the pile of other notes.  Morgana had insisted on overseeing the delivery of everything Pelleas had sent Ettare to Gaius’s chambers—she had carried the notes and several bits of jewelry herself, with Gwen and Ettare’s maid bringing empty vases, dead flowers, other jewels and even a silk dress.  Gaius had looked at them all, but could find nothing that was conspicuously enchanted.

“At least you’re not melting,” Morgana muttered to herself.  Ettare’s maid had been dismissed, but Gwen remained, wringing her hands—waiting, like Morgana, for Gaius to finish his examination.

“How did you first meet Pelleas?” Gaius asked, taking Ettare’s right hand, which had now become glass past her wrist.

“It was months ago.  He said something to me in the square—it was after the witch fog—some comment as though he knew who had been behind it and who had really lifted it—I thought he was bragging—trying to impress me.  As if he was the one who lifted it, and he didn’t fear the law.”

“I know for a fact that Pelleas did not lift that fog,” Gaius said.

“I didn’t believe him, of course.  I just thought he was an arrogant merchant, or maybe a traveler.  He started . . . wooing.”

“He tried to court you?” Morgana asked, incredulous. 

Ettare nodded.  “I couldn’t convince him to go away.  At first he was an annoyance—I’ve turned away more aggressive suitors.  At least, that’s what I told myself.  Then he became a pain, and then . . .”

“He frightened you,” Gaius finished, his voice tender.

Ettare drew herself up.  “He was just—he was just an annoying nobody trying to . . .”

~

“He’s a very dangerous sorcerer,” Gaius told the council the next morning.  “One we all know.”

“He’s Nimueh’s Pelleas?” Cynan asked in disbelief.

“I knew his name sounded familiar,” Ulfius said.  “But Lady Ettare described a younger man—Pelleas would be as old as any of us by now, surely.”

“Pelleas was a _favorite_ of Nimueh’s,” Gaius said.  “Who knows what she taught him.”

“Why didn’t Lady Ettare report him?” Oswald said.

“If she had,” Gylberd added, “we could’ve hunted him down.  As it is, it just looks like she’s been consorting with him.”

Gaius sighed.  “She didn’t know Pelleas was a sorcerer when she first met him, so she had no reason to report him.  By the time she realized, it was too late to avoid appearances: he was ‘courting’ her, after all.”

“How do we find him?” Ulfius sighed.

“And can we lift the curse without him?” Cynan said.  “Lady Ettare is slowly dying—she isn’t going to still be alive as a glass statue, is she?”

Silence.

“I honestly don’t know,” was all Gaius could say.

 

~*~

 

“What about fog?” Merlin asked.  He ignored the herbs that needed grinding and tried instead to engage Blaise.  “I can conjure fog.”

Lancelot glanced up from the strips of linen he was tearing; Blaise noticed his surprise.

“Even your friend thinks that’s stupid,” Blaise said.

“No,” Lancelot composed himself, “I was just wondering why you have a room solely for wounded.  You must fight many battles.”

“Little wonder, then,” Blaise replied.  He picked up a knife from the assortment lined on the table and a whetstone.  Lancelot seized the opportunity to surreptitiously mouth, _they know?_ to Merlin.

Merlin blithely nodded a confirmation and turned back to Blaise.  “Then let’s use—”

“No. Magic,” Blaise slammed the knife down.  “It will only redouble Uther’s resolve.  We must make him forget everything but Arthur.”

“What does King Leodogran think?” Lancelot asked.

“Who knows,” Merlin muttered, grabbing the mortar and pestle.  “He refuses to see anyone.”

“The King is deliberating the situation privately,” Blaise said.

“Do you think he’ll surrender?” Lancelot asked.

“No—he wouldn’t—he can’t,” Merlin fumbled with the pestle.

“Are you staying in Cameliard?” Lancelot asked Merlin.

“No,” Merlin said.  “Yes,” Blaise also said.  Lancelot glanced from one to the other.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Blaise told Merlin.  “Go make sure the bed linens are clean.”

Blaise watched Merlin and Lancelot exit through the door connecting to the adjoining room.  When he was sure Merlin had left that room as well—presumably to find Arthur—he sighed; he then retrieved a sword from his bookshelves, recently placed there—as though on an afterthought—and felt its weight in his hands.  He gripped it, as he’d seen so many knights hold their swords, rotating its hilt in an unsuccessful attempt to make the cumbersome thing feel comfortable, or at least familiar.  The blade looked bleak and dull, and Blaise slowly, disconsolately pressed the whetstone against it.

~

It was impossible for Arthur to hear any one conversation—the throne room was a council of war.  Princess Anna presided at the head of a long table, upon which maps were strewn.  She was talking with Sir Bors.  Sitting close by, Erling and Idris and Sagremore pored over the maps, sliding one over another as it gained relevance.  Two knights sat with them.  The spy who had brought the news of Uther’s coming related his information to Alaric and Cole.  Gaudifier and Lucas conversed quietly behind the throne, their heads leaning in towards each other for privacy.  Other knights waited around the table for questions or orders; three messengers attended the Princess; one servant replaced a ewer of water and another refilled goblets with mulled wine—only two pairs of eyes noticed Arthur approach.

Tiernan, the druid member of Leodogran’s council, had spotted Arthur the instant he’d entered the room.  He watched Arthur, curiosity burning in his brown eyes.  Caradoc likewise followed Arthur, but as usual, her face remained inscrutable.  She stood behind Anna’s left, and as Arthur got closer she stepped forward, careful not to interrupt Bors, and lightly touched Anna’s elbow.  Anna looked up and noticed Arthur.  Caradoc stepped back; Arthur continued forward.

“Once Uther sets in, he’ll cut off our supply routes—we start rationing today,” Anna commanded.  Bors nodded and left, curtly acknowledging Arthur on his way.

“It doesn’t have to come to that,” Arthur said to Anna. 

Anna smiled an overly sweet smile at Sagremore, who had started to stare; she begged leave of Tiernan with a motion of her head; and she slid her arm under Arthur’s and took him out into the corridor.

“Let me help,” Arthur continued as they walked.  “If I can intercept my father—”

“You’ll embrace and blissfully return home?  Uther wants a fight.”

“If fighting starts, Cameliard will lose.”  Arthur glanced at Caradoc, who trailed them at a respectful distance.  But if she had anything to add, she kept it to herself.

“Then we’ll have to use our wits,” Anna said.  “You know what wits are, don’t you?  They tell you when something is a bad idea.”

“Then I must have an abundance,” Arthur replied, “because I’m seeing a lot of bad ideas right now.”

“I’m looking at just one.”

“You think I should have scurried out of here as soon as the manticore was dead?”

“I think,” Anna hesitated.  After a moment she spoke again.  “It doesn’t matter why you stayed,” she said.  “Only why Uther thinks you stayed.”

“Anna,” Arthur pulled her over to the side, as if the wall afforded privacy.  “I had to stay.  I owed you—your kingdom.”

“For killing the manticore?  You repaid that debt when you fought for us.  Won for us.”

Arthur paused; he groped for words.  “Have you ever just,” he hesitated, “needed to do something—to know something . . .”

“Something nobody else thinks matters?  Yes, Arthur, I actually have,” Anna said quietly, the words catching in her throat.  “And Uther is still coming.”

 

~*~

 

Ettare’s chambers were dark—windows latched shut, curtains drawn closed, and only a few candles lit.  Gwen was lighting another one when Morgana tiptoed into the room.

“Tell your maid I’m not dead yet,” Ettare said defiantly.

“We know,” Morgana tried to keep her voice calm and even.  “We thought you might want some privacy.”

“What I want is to see him _hang_.  That vile, despicable—” her voice caught and she squeezed her eyes shut.  A glass tear, folded inside a genuine one, rolled down her cheek.  Morgana gently wiped it from her face.

“Please,” Ettare said, anger replaced by despair, “please, just let the daylight in.”

Morgana nodded to Gwen, who pulled back every curtain, flooding the room with the afternoon sun.  Light fell on Ettare, lying in bed, still in simple night garments, with her hair loose, though recently brushed.  The light fell on her hands—both glass, which Morgana now grasped, sitting down on the edge of the bed and ignoring Gaius as he strode into the room, a vial in his left hand.

“She can’t use her limbs,” Gwen whispered to Gaius.  “Her right leg is all glass—past her hip,” she tried to hide her horror.  Gaius nodded solemnly, and uncapped the vial.

“Here,” Gaius leaned over and Morgana moved out of his way.  “Drink this.”

Ettare tilted her head back and Gaius slowly poured the liquid contents into her mouth.  She swallowed in one gulp.

“Now get some rest,” he said gently; Ettare squeezed her eyes shut.

He left and Morgana ran after him into the hallway.  “Will that help her?”

“I hope so.”

“But you don’t think so?  It wasn’t just water, was it?” Morgana said suspiciously.

“Of course not!  It was something that I hope will slow the process until I find a cure.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”  Gaius quickened his pace, but Morgana matched it.

“If a sorcerer must undo the spell that means it takes magic,” she announced.

“Some spells can be reversed by other means.”

“Including this one?  _Gaius_ ,” Morgana grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop.  She stepped close to him, her voice a whisper filled with concern.  “If there’s anything I can do—I mean if—if I need to perform a sp—”

“Tssht,” Gaius hissed quietly, glancing around to make sure they were alone.  “Morgana, your—illness—”

“My _magic_.”

“is . . . undeveloped.  Even if I could find a counterspell—”

“But Uther had all the magic books burned.”

“—it would take a practiced sorcerer.”

“So Ettare is doomed unless Pelleas can be found?”

Gaius closed his eyes, and it occurred to Morgana that he had not been sleeping.  “Every knight left in Camelot is searching for him,” Gaius said with resignation.  “Every _person_ in Camelot is searching for him.”

“You don’t think they’ll find him,” Morgana said.

Gaius turned the corners of his mouth up—a wan smile meant to convince himself as much as anyone in front of him.  “I am doing everything I possibly can.” 

And this time Morgana let him walk away.

 

~*~

 

Caradoc stared incredulously at Lancelot.  “Why didn’t you say you were from a far off land?  Iberia or Hellas—Armorica, even, or Rome?  If you’re trying to convince a king that you have noble lineage, claiming to be the neighbor’s son . . .”

“Clearly I wasn’t thinking,” Lancelot cast a subtle glance Merlin’s direction—a poor angle:  Lancelot sat on the floor, leaning against the outer wall; Merlin lounged on his bed.

“Armorica wouldn’t have worked,” Arthur said, pacing in front of the door.  In the small room he and Merlin shared, he was effectively going in circles. “We have friends there,” he explained.

“And I don’t act much like a nobleman,” Lancelot added, fiddling with his sword.

“What about you, Cara?” Merlin leaned forward.  “How did you meet Anna?”

Caradoc, sitting at the table with a foot on the other chair and her arm on her knee, considered Merlin for a moment.

“We first met in Lindum,” she said as something outside the window caught her attention.

“Is that where you’re from?” Merlin asked.

“No,” Caradoc said.  “Why I was there is my affair.” 

“Like what you’re doing in our room right now?” Arthur said.

“She’s doing her duty,” Merlin said, trying to assuage Arthur.

“So, Anna’s affair then,” Arthur said off-handedly, making yet another round in front of the door.  Caradoc, unperturbed by Arthur’s needling, gave her own challenge: 

“Anna was pretending to be a servant in Lindum.”

Arthur stopped.

“Really?” Merlin smiled.  “Why?” Lancelot said.  “Did her father know?” Arthur asked.

Caradoc shrugged and looked back out the window, focusing, tense and alert, on the night beyond the casement.  “Maybe she was trying to prove something,” she muttered, half to herself, “or maybe she just got tired of being groomed to do nothing.”

Arthur moved suddenly, opening the door and disappearing into the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Caradoc was on Arthur’s heels in an instant, Merlin and Lancelot bolting after.  All but Merlin carried swords.

“You’re going to show me what the hell you keep staring at.”

                 

~*~

 

The moon was waning crescent in the night, passing in and out of scattered clouds.  Morgana came to a clearing—a small, secluded space secreted among the dense trees of Camelot’s surrounding forests.  It was a short walk made shorter by the urgency of Morgana’s mission—she had almost run, but she had to make sure that she wasn’t followed.

She approached a large tree, and her hands sought beneath the folds of her dark purple cloak for the tightly rolled bit of parchment she had tucked away.  She placed this small roll—no larger than her littlest finger—in a crack in the bark where the tree bifurcated—each smaller twin trunk branching high into the sky.

“I hope you find this in time,” Morgana said quietly.

“In time for what?” Morgause said.

 

~*~

 

The smell of apples and old sweat and distant marshland mingled in the hushed streets of Cameliard, as Caradoc led Arthur and Merlin and Lancelot on a clandestine hunt.  She ran on tiptoe, sword tucked against her back, tip upward and hilt gripped firmly in her right hand.  The naked blade glinted beside her black shirt and dark wild hair.  Arthur and Lancelot held their swords out at the ready, keeping Merlin, unarmed, protectively in the middle.  The area outside Merlin and Arthur’s room was a dead end, a stone-paved alley separating the palace from the adjacent baker’s.  A small doorway marked a back entrance to the baker’s house, and several discarded barrels littered the street.  Straw and dirt crunched soundlessly beneath their feet as they moved.  Caradoc and Arthur slid over to the baker’s back door.  Arthur pounced into the shadows and attacked—

Nothing—nobody was hiding in the doorway.  Arthur looked at Caradoc for explanation; Caradoc looked around warily.  A soft night breeze.  And nothing.

Arthur relaxed, convinced Caradoc had jumped at shadows, while Caradoc scrutinized every piece of masonry.  And from around the front corner of the baker’s house, behind Lancelot, a form emerged—approached—blade in hand.  Lancelot, with a sharp backward punch of his elbow, knocked him to the ground.  Lancelot swiftly whirled around and held his sword to the fallen man’s eyes.

“Your name,” Lancelot demanded.

“Lancelot,” Arthur hurried over and put a placating hand on Lancelot’s arm.

“Who is he?” Caradoc asked. 

Arthur sheathed his sword.  “He’s from Camelot.”

~

Leodogran took his place on the throne.  Despite the late hour, he was fully dressed—and exhausted.  Anna leaned against the side of the throne, and though she wore the same simple dark green dress she’d worn throughout the day, her hair was loose and her jewelry removed.

“A messenger from Camelot, my lord,” Anna said sardonically.

The prisoner was on his knees in front of the King.  Arthur stood protectively beside him.

“He means no harm,” Arthur said.  Behind him, one of the four guards that had escorted them into the hall snorted.  Arthur ignored it, facing only Leodogran.  Merlin and Lancelot stood by—Caradoc, however, stood apart, leaning against the wall, lost in the shadows of the ill-lit room.

“You bring me the second of your envoys, but not the first?” Leodogran said, indicating Lancelot.

“This is Lancelot,” Arthur said.  “He’s here to serve you.”

Leodogran raised an eyebrow, and Merlin glanced at Arthur in surprise.  Lancelot shifted uncomfortably, looking away—then to Arthur, then to Leodogran—and away again.

“A service he obviously didn’t know he was offering,” Anna noted.  “Would he remain in Cameliard as Leodogran’s man or as Arthur’s?”

“I can’t,” Lancelot broke in awkwardly, “I don’t want—I won’t dishonor you.”

“How would you—? Oh yes,” Anna said, “Cara mentioned you were a farmer.”

“Does that matter?” Arthur challenged.

“Only his skills,” Anna replied.  “We can’t afford to turn away good fighters.”

Lancelot glanced desperately at Merlin.

“Except that,” Merlin stammered, trying not to let his mouth get ahead of his mind, “well, he’s sort of in a feud right now.”

“He killed of Tarquin,” Arthur said impatiently.  Merlin looked back at Arthur, an equally impatient question in his eyes.  “We do have our own spies, Merlin,” Arthur said.  Merlin turned to Lancelot.

“Tarquin challenged me on the road,” Lancelot said.  “He lost.”

“Does this Tarquin have family?” Anna asked.  “I assume he was a knight.”

“Why would that matter?” Merlin asked.

“Because you might still be in a feud,” Anna said to Lancelot.

“What’s your name?” Leodogran said abruptly.  He had ignored the conversation around him and had been watching the man on his knees.

The man glanced at Arthur before saying, “Eudon.”

“Stand up, Eudon,” Leodogran said.  Eudon quickly got to his feet.

“You understand I cannot allow you to report to your king on our defenses.”  It was not a question and required no response.  “Prince Arthur will be responsible for you.”  Leodogran looked at Arthur, the full force of his words underscored by his gaze.  “Now, if there is nothing more,” Leodogran rose, “I’m going to bed.”

The King had spoken.  The four guards followed Arthur as he escorted Eudon to one of the rooms shared by his knights; none spoke.  Anna followed her father, and Caradoc, with a curt nod to her, exited after Arthur; Merlin and Lancelot meandered wordlessly back to their room.

When Anna caught up with her father, she asked, “Why are we not questioning him?  He must know Uther’s plans.”

“Uther plans to retrieve his son and raze our kingdom.”

“But with how many—” Anna began a list of desired details.

“Anna,” Leodogran interrupted.

“If Uther reaches our walls, he’s not going to stop,” she said.

“I know,” Leodogran sighed, coming to a hard-fought decision.  “Have Arthur and his men, and a small escort prepared to leave at daybreak.”

“You’re meeting an army with an escort?” Anna protested.

“I’m meeting a distraught father.”

“But—”

“Anna,” Leodogran took her gently by the shoulders, “It will be all right.” He kissed her forehead; and then turned and walked away, leaving his daughter alone in the middle of the corridor.

 

~*~

 

Ettare’s chambers.  One candle flickered by her bed, the only light against the oppressive darkness.  Gwen latched the windows and pulled the curtains shut.  Ettare slept.

Or at least her eyes were closed and her breathing was mostly even, interrupted intermittently by muffled sobs—a brief shudder running through the remaining flesh of her body.

Gaius entered, another vial clutched in his hands.

“How is she?” he whispered, defeat tainting his voice.  Gwen shook her head and joined Gaius at Ettare’s bedside.  Ettare’s limbs, her ears, her shoulders, the tip of her nose—all glass.  Her lips were slightly parted and Gaius held the back of his hand over them, feeling the weak heat of her breath.  He closed his eyes and squeezed the vial tighter.

“Are you going to give her something?” Gwen whispered.

Gaius opened his eyes, but couldn’t meet Gwen’s.  He stared instead Ettare—and his expression suddenly changed.

“Gwen—get me some light!”

Gwen yanked back the curtains, letting the faint moonlight in, and grabbed two candles, adding them to the one by the bed.  Another candle was placed down by another hand—Ettare’s maidservant—neither Gwen or Gaius had heard her come in.

“What’s happening?  Is she all right?” the girl asked.

Gaius brought a candle to Ettare’s face.  Her nose, her ears—completely normal.  Ettare’s eyes fluttered open and she lifted her arm.

And all four of them watched, despite the poor light, as every inch of glass morphed back into flesh.

 

~*~

 

Cameliard was restless.  Midnight was a distant memory and morning a crouching threat.  Clouds covered the sky.  By dawn they would be scattered, but now they congealed; the moon’s light bled through, creating a phosphorescent blob above the castle towers.  Within the city walls few slept. Servants and squires hurried about, preparing armor and horses and water and food for the small contingent that would accompany the King.  Arthur’s men packed their meager belongings, finally shaking out the bright red mantles with the dragon crest embroidered on the shoulder.  These mantles identified them as knights of Camelot, and each had kept his carefully hidden since arriving in Cameliard.

There was no need for such secrecy now.

Arthur donned his own clothes—the clothes in which he’d arrived— and proceeded to the great hall, letting Merlin prepare his armor and their horses—to become again the Prince’s servant.

The doors to the hall were open.  The Lady Julia emerged with pursed lips and angry steps.

“Well it looks like you were right,” Arthur said when he saw her.  “Uther’s coming to take his mutt home.”

“It looks like you were right,” Julia replied.  “It’s going to be the last thing he does here.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, staring each other down.  “I do hope you enjoyed our hospitality, Prince Arthur,” Julia whispered in his ear before brushing past him.

In the throne room, no flame burned.  What little light there was came from the veiled moon and the crisp unburdening of darkness that announces dawn.  What little warmth there was came from obstinate embers in the great fireplace.  The room was gray and beleaguered by shadows.  King Leodogran was tired.

He sat swallowed by his throne.  He had not been to bed.  A heavy robe wrapped his form, and he curled forward, elbows on knees, to stare unseeing at the floor.  He absentmindedly turned his crown in his hands, as if it were an old, favorite toy that had long ago lost its ability to beguile. 

Arthur approached slowly, not wanting to disturb him.  He stood in front of Leodogran for a silent, unguarded moment, but Leodogran gave no indication he noticed.

“My men will be ready to leave within the hour,” Arthur ventured.

“She will insist on coming,” Leodogran said, staring through the center of his crown to the floor in front of his feet.  “We haven’t the time for the argument, and she will come, regardless.”  He looked up at Arthur.  “And I’m not sure she should stay here.”

Arthur stared down at the King, a knot twisting in his gut.

“You’ve put us in an intractable situation,” Leodogran said softly—it was not an accusation.  The knot tightened sharply.  The King looked up; Arthur looked down, trying to find his way out of this wrong-way-round supplication.

He kneeled.

“I swear,” Arthur said, “Anna will be safe and no harm will come to Cameliard as long as I live.  No matter who the enemy.”

Leodogran raised a hand to stop Arthur.

“Please,” Arthur said.  “I owe this kingdom more than my life.”  He let his head fall forward—a penitent bow.  “My father is wrong about magic,” he said.

Leodogran laid a hand on Arthur’s head.

“Your father is a man with inconsolable reasons.”

Arthur looked up.  “If he could see—”

“He knows, Arthur,” Leodogran said.  “He used to know,” he corrected.  “When lesser kings saw magic as a rival for power, Uther let it be, trusting the might of his sword.  A deadly sword—an undefeatable sword.  Uther, Chief of Warriors.  Afraid of nothing.”

“I am so sorry,” Arthur said.

“I know.”  Leodogran surveyed the empty hall, where details were just beginning to emerge as the dawn drew nearer.  “I just hope he still suffers from pride.  Because I see no other way out of this.”

Leodogran stood, resignation draping from his shoulders.  Arthur also stood, and Leodogran took one last look at the hall and touched Arthur’s shoulder. 

“You are greater than your father,” he said.

Arthur watched him leave and then returned reluctantly to his room, where Merlin had everything ready to go. 

~

Princess Anna settled her crossbow on her horse, opting to carry her bow as she rode.  Sir Bors, who frequently hunted with her, knew her skill; it was Merlin’s presence that filled him with trepidation.  As Blaise’s apprentice, Merlin belonged in Cameliard, but instead he was leaving with Arthur’s party, and Blaise did nothing but stand sullenly in the castle entrance. 

Merlin didn’t notice.  He slowly, regretfully removed the long, grey coat he’d worn since becoming Blaise’s apprentice, rolled it up into his pack, and snatched a brown, threadbare jacket that lay across his saddle.  Merlin wriggled as he put it on—as though it didn’t fit right—and tied a red kerchief around his neck.

Bors walked over to King Leodogran, who waited patiently as squires prepared his horse.  One of those squires, a sunbaked sixteen-year-old eager to be knighted, would bear the King’s pennant and lead the pack-mule carrying the only tent—everyone but the King would sleep in the open.   As for other supplies, each man—and woman—would have only what rations his horse could carry.  Nonetheless, squires and servants bustled about while townsfolk pretended to perform their early-morning routines.  But it was hard to ignore the knights lining every parapet and wall, stationed at every entrance, and assembled in neat Roman lines around the King’s escort.

“I thought I told you to stay with Anna,” Leodogran said to Bors.

“Yes, Sire,” Bors said, “but . . .” he glanced over at Princess Anna as she adjusted the stirrups of her saddle.  He was surprised that she wore a knife at the small of her back, in the same manner as Caradoc.  However, Caradoc rarely donned armor, whereas Anna wore an ill-fitting hauberk above brown leggings and boots.  Her hair was tightly braided, and a young squire held a helmet for her.  Bors also noticed that Lady Julia had come out and was pacing anxiously in front of Blaise.

“But,” Leodogran prompted.

As for Caradoc, she waited astride her impatient horse, wearing her habitual black, knife at her back, sword fingered across her saddle, and, Bors knew, a dagger in each boot.

“The Priestess said Blaise had to teach Merlin—if Merlin leaves—”

“He can come back,” Leodogran said.  “If any of Arthur’s men remain, Uther will assume we are keeping hostages.”

Bors nodded, with little conviction, and glanced again in Merlin’s direction.  Nor was he the only one watching Merlin; Arthur too stared uncertainly, over the nose of his horse.  He held the reins firmly to prevent his horse’s head from blocking his view as Merlin surreptitiously stashed two books in his saddlebag.

“You knew he had magic,” Arthur said to Lancelot.

“Yes.”  Lancelot was treating his own horse to an apple, and the crunching nearly drowned out his words.  When he looked up, Arthur was staring hard at him.

“He killed the griffin,” Lancelot explained.

“It was you I saw.”

“I know.  But—I heard Merlin’s voice as I was riding—I don’t know how—but I heard the spell as if he was beside me.  And I felt the lance come alive in my hand . . . I didn’t do anything special, Arthur.  Nothing you or any of your knights couldn’t have done.”

“Merlin used you.”

“He saved Camelot.  I couldn’t take credit for his actions.”

Arthur looked away and Lancelot waited for him to speak again.  Minutes passed.  The preparations going on around them were completed, and Arthur’s knights and their Cameliard escort mounted up.  Arthur watched Anna lift herself smoothly onto her horse and receive her helmet from the squire.  She adjusted it on her head until she found a halfway-decent fit.

Arthur grabbed Lancelot’s arm and pulled him close.  “ _Nothing_ is to happen to her,” he ordered.

And thus Arthur Pendragon left the kingdom of Cameliard.  It was just past dawn.  Four knights of Cameliard led the way—through the silent, suspended city—followed by King Leodogran and the squire holding high his pennant.  Lady Julia and Blaise hurried to the top of the gate, joining several other council members.  No one spoke.  After the King came Arthur, with Merlin at his side; then the nine knights of Camelot and Eudon the spy.  Once outside the walls, Leodogran glanced back to check on his daughter; she rode behind Arthur’s men, Bors on her right, Lancelot on her left, and Caradoc at her rear.  Finally, behind Caradoc, rode the last four knights of Leodogran’s escort, completing the party that would intercept Uther’s army.

 

~*~

 

Succinct morning light revived Ettare’s chambers.  Ettare slept as her door opened and her maid entered, carrying a tray of fruit—and a knight, fully armed including his helmet, grabbed the maid’s arm and rushed her into the room before pushing the door shut behind them.

“What are you doing?” the maid exclaimed.

“I came to see how the Lady Ettare fares,” the knight answered.  “And how she fares _so well_.” 

Ettare sat up in bed, well rested and calm.

“Hello, Pelleas,” she said.

Immediately, sword-wielding knights jumped out from behind curtains and screens and even from under her bed.  Pelleas was surrounded.

 

~*~

 

Leodogran’s escort rode silently, except for a few whispered asides and heavy glances that passed among the men.  Most thoughts were on the oncoming clash, but Anna, with little space between her horse and her guards’, stared long and hard at Lancelot.  It made him uncomfortable—he looked to Bors as if Bors could provide some explanation for the Princess’s interest, but Bors was watching the foliage and the men ahead and, subtly, Anna.  Lancelot nudged his horse toward the side of the road, separating himself from Anna’s scrutiny; he noticed Bors smirk.  Anna, feigning disinterest, adjusted the unaccustomed knife at her back and followed him, guiding her horse with her thighs.

“Are you truly looking for a knighthood?” she asked, still modifying her knife's placement and watching Arthur’s back.  “Or just an excuse for errantry?”

“Is it wrong to wander?” Lancelot said.  “Caradoc does.”

“I travel,” Caradoc said, close on Anna’s tail.

“What’s the difference?” Lancelot asked.

“I’m not restless inside.  My home is the road; I’m never away.”

“So then, Sir Lancelot,” Anna said.  “If a kingdom were in need, would you wander its way?”

“Just ‘Lancelot’—I haven’t earned the title—and I can’t turn the tide of a battle.”

“Cameliard does not ask for miracles, only aid,” Anna said. 

Lancelot could think of nothing to say.

“The offer is sincere,” Anna added, staring again at Arthur up ahead.

Lancelot opened his mouth as if the words would come of their own volition—but nothing.

“I see,” Anna said after a moment.  “You are indeed Arthur’s man, knight or no.”

“He’s a great man,” Lancelot said, so quietly it might have been a whisper.

“He’s renowned man,” Anna said.  “You’ll find rather a few kings and princes who are good men, believe it or not.”

“Men who can change things?” Lancelot asked casually.  Anna stared at him.

“Are you referring to certain insidious laws of Camelot?” she asked, confused.

“You can’t possibly approve of Uther,” Lancelot said, his face firmly forward.  Anna studied him, sensing that he was deflecting.

“No,” she finally said, letting it go.  “But Uther did not simply make a wish and wake to find the world transformed.  He accomplished what he did with the full support of his nobility, trust me; Arthur will change nothing without a fight.”

 

~*~

 

The full court was gathered—the council, nobles, servants.  The Ladies Morgana and Ettare stood off the side, flanked by their respective maids.  Pelleas sauntered into the great hall, surrounded by a dozen knights.  He surveyed the court with amusement—and though he had been stripped of all his possessions and wore only a dirty brown robe, his demeanor was that of a visiting king.  He stared at Ettare.

“Pelleas,” Gaius moved to block his line of sight, “you’re looking well.  And as young as ever.”

“Gaius,” Pelleas met his gaze.  “You’re looking old as can be.  How time must be flying.”

Sir Ulfius stepped forward from the line of councilmen.  “Pelleas, you have been charged with the high and most unforgivable crime of sorcery.  Have you anything to say in your defense?”  Ulfius spoke loudly and authoritatively, addressing the whole court.

“Perhaps it is best if we don’t let him speak,” Sir Gylberd said.

“Have you any evidence against me?” Pelleas said, glancing languidly around the court.

Morgana laughed in disbelief.

“You were a well-known associate of the witch Nimueh,” Oswald said.

“I think I may have laid eyes on her once—in this very room, as I recall.  Is that all?  You condemn me because of people I may have met?  How disappointing.”

“ _You turned me into glass!_ ” Ettare exclaimed.

“Did I now.  And who turned you back, I wonder?”  Pelleas’s eyes came to rest on a spot behind Ettare.  “Perhaps I did—out of the goodness of my heart.”  Gaius turned to see what distracted Pelleas, but there was only stone and wall.

“Enough!” Ulfius said.  “We have years of evidence against you for the practice of magic.  You are hereby sentenced to death.  Take him away,” Ulfius waved to Sir Lamorack.  “And gag him while you’re at it—I don’t want his evil tongue working any more mischief.”

Pelleas bowed, or rather, performed a parody of a bow.  Knights on each side reached for his arms, but he turned around and strode out of the room on his own, as if the knights were his own men, escorting him safely from danger.

“Let this be a warning,” Ulfius said when Pelleas was gone, “that the law of Camelot is not lax because King Uther is gone.  The plague of magic will not be tolerated.”

“Which brings us to the matter of who did lift the curse on Lady Ettare,” Sir Oswald said.

“Are you serious?” Morgana demanded.  Beside her, Ettare stifled a shudder; she lowered her lids, gazing at the floor and burying her thoughts.

“The use of magic is forbidden,” Sir Gylberd said.  “If Pelleas did not lift the curse, then we have another sorcerer to find.”  A wave of whispers rolled over the court, hushing when Ulfius spoke.

“Gaius,” he said, “do—”

“Lady Ettare’s life was saved!” Morgana protested, patrolling the floor in front of the council, seeking a sympathetic ear.  “Why would we punish the saving of a life?”

“Saved on a whim,” Sir Oswald said.  “What happens when that whim changes?”

“It is unlikely Pelleas lifted the curse,” Gaius told Ulfius.

“Then find this other sorcerer,” Ulfius ordered.  “Lady Morgana,” he continued gently, interrupting her before she could object, “you must understand, magic creates chaos and suffering.  Even if someone claims to have altruistic reasons, at its heart magic is malignant and corrupt.”

“You offer very little incentive for it to be otherwise,” Morgana sneered quietly.  “So Pelleas is to be executed solely for using magic and not for assaulting an innocent woman?”

“An assault he could hardly have made without magic,” Andronic said.

“I’m so glad to see Uther’s justice is thriving without him,” Morgana glared at Ulfius and walked brusquely out of the hall.  Gwen gave a quick, pleading look to Gaius, then tried to discreetly hurry after Morgana—but the court watched as she left.  Ulfius sighed, ordering yet another search of Camelot for yet another sorcerer.

 

~*~

 

Arthur felt vaguely the heat of the small fire around which he and Merlin and Anna and Lancelot sat; Caradoc stood nearby, ever vigilant.  Three other fires burned in the night: one surrounded by Arthur’s men, another by four of Cameliard’s knights while the other four took the first watch.  King Leodogran sat by the third fire—alone—staring unseeing into the flames.  Behind him loomed the dark shape of his tent, and through the open flaps Arthur could see the young squire arranging furs for the King’s bedding.  The tent was the only accouterment suggesting status in the camp; otherwise, theirs was a forlorn band, and it was whispered among the men that King Leodogran wanted it that way.

Arthur broke his gaze away from Leodogran.  They had taken refuge in the forest an hour ago at sundown, and already moonlight was piercing the foliage.  Uther was close—they all knew it—but not so close for an ambush.  Unease dominated nonetheless.  Arthur surveyed the camp and locked eyes with Sir Bors, who stood beside the king’s tent, still wearing his hauberk and sword—as many were—staring straight at Arthur.

Arthur dropped his lids and felt something brush against his hand: Merlin offering him water.  Arthur accepted it but didn’t drink—he absently passed it from one hand to the other, feeling the weight of the pouch, and the cold of the rock on which he sat.  Lancelot, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Merlin, prodded the fire; Anna, leaning against a tree, watched the stick in his hands, her expression mirroring her father’s.

Lancelot cleared his throat, venturing into the silence.  “Why did you pretend to be a servant?”

Anna met his eyes as his question registered in her mind.  She glanced at Caradoc, who merely raised an eyebrow at her.

“It seemed the thing to do at the time,” Anna shrugged.

“Did you get your question answered?” Arthur asked.

“No,” she said curtly.

“Did you at least learn to appreciate how hard servants work?” Merlin asked.

Arthur scowled at him.

“If I want to know how hard servants work,” Anna scoffed, “all I have to do is open my eyes and look around.  I don’t need to leave Cameliard for that.”

“If you learned nothing,” Merlin retorted, “you at least impressed Cara.”

Anna laughed.  “I certainly made an impression; since Cara pitied me enough to tell me how stupid I was.”

“She intrigued me,” Caradoc interrupted, addressing Merlin.  She said nothing more, but looked back out into the dark of the wood.

“Are you impressed?” Anna asked Merlin, surprise filling her voice.  “That one day I decided to deceive those beneath me?”

“If you pretended to be a servant, then you spent the day doing the work of those ‘beneath’ you.  You had to talk to them as equals.  Yes, I’m so silly to think the nobility needs to learn that they’re not the only people in the world who matter.  How can you wield power if you don’t understand what it does or who it affects?”

A wounded, exposed look crept over Anna’s face, a look of embarrassment and ire, while disbelief seized Arthur: “Nobility needs to learn that?” he demanded so quietly that no one heard.

“I apologize for questioning you, Princess,” Merlin finished, on top of Arthur’s question.

For a moment the soft roar and crackling of the fire was the only noise.  Merlin and Anna stared at each other; but Arthur stared at Merlin—and both Caradoc and Lancelot watched Merlin ignore—or completely fail to notice—the look on Arthur’s face, which was incredulous and angry and slowly walling itself up.

“I failed, Merlin,” Anna finally said.  “They saw through me, and treated me accordingly—not as an equal.  They wouldn’t let me do any work, and I stupidly thought that they were just being nice.  Cara set me straight—hence I realized she wasn’t a servant either—because no one else would talk to me.  They were afraid of incurring my wrath—or the wrath of their own nobility, were it discovered that a princess was doing menial labor.  I terrified them,” Anna was talking privately into the fire now, “except one girl, whom I irritated—as if I was having a laugh at her expense.”  She stared vacantly, immersed in her own memories.

“I failed too,” Lancelot said, again trying to ease the tension, “of being something I’m not.”  Anna looked up at him and Lancelot felt himself dismantled by her gaze.  “A nobleman, I mean,” he added uncomfortably.

“Riches are easy enough to earn,” Anna said, reiterating Cameliard’s offer.

But Lancelot had nothing more to say.

 

~*~

 

Morgana threw a rock at a tree.  Not sufficiently satisfied, she picked up another and threw it.  The small clearing in the woods held only a few such rocks, so Morgana grabbed a loose clod of dirt; it exploded against the tree trunk.

“Feel better?” Morgause asked, stepping out from behind a different tree.

“Must you do that?” Morgana snapped, clenching her fists with a need to strangle something.

“Must I do what?” Morgause responded calmly.

“Appear and disappear out of nowhere.  You should be disappeared right now, anyway.”

“Should I?” Morgause asked, still calm, but neither surprised nor insulted.

Morgana closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the cool night air.  “If you don’t escape, Uther’s—the knights of Camelot will kill you.”  She opened her eyes and looked—exhausted—at Morgause.  “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to endanger you.”

“Morgana,” Morgause clasped Morgana’s shoulders, “don’t be silly—you have done nothing to harm me—you know I am not easy prey.”  Morgause sat down on the ground, pulling on Morgana’s hand so that Morgana would join her.  “Now tell me about the woman—is she all right?”

“She’s perfectly healthy,” Morgana smiled, “thanks to you.  And now you’re being hunted for it.”

“And the sorcerer who cursed her?”

“He’s in custody.  Set to be executed.”  Morgana enunciated the word as if some irony were seeping from it.  “Executed for the practice of magic.  Nobody cares what he did—only what he used.  Magic.  Never mind he nearly turned a woman into living glass.  No—that’s not a bad thing—but _magic_ —we can’t have that.”

“Yes—how exactly did you catch him?”

“He was taken in Lady Ettare’s chambers.  You’re surprised?”  Morgana scrutinized Morgause.  “You know him?”

“I know he is a powerful sorcerer who was taught by a very powerful witch.  Yes, I am surprised he was taken so easily.”

“He was stripped of his possessions, bound and gagged.”

“That may not be enough,” Morgause said.  “Release him to me.”

“What would you do with him?  If our precautions aren’t enough, how will you control him?”

“Are you worried about me, Morgana?”

“He’s a conniving, malicious man.”

“I know how to handle him—and I will make sure he is justly punished for what he has done, not for his gifts.”  Morgause gently stroked Morgana’s hair.

Morgana contemplated the ground.

 

~*~

 

“You should get some rest,” Arthur said as he sat down beside Anna.

“Why?” she replied, scooting over so that Arthur wasn’t half-straddling the tree’s roots.  “Is tomorrow going to require all my strength?”

Arthur glanced around the camp.  Caradoc, supine on the ground nearby, breathed evenly.  Merlin, on the opposite side of the dead fire, lay on his side facing the forest.  Lancelot, on watch, guarded the camp some distance away, the outline of his form a shadow against shadows.  Outside Leodogran’s pavilion, Bors sat with his lids half-closed, monitoring the nocturnal scurryings of the forest.

“I’m sure father has some clever and unexpected scheme,” Anna said.  Arthur said nothing; Anna, getting no response, absentmindedly picked up her crossbow and selected a bolt from the roll of cloth beside her.  As if in meditation, she slid the bolt into place—with his peripheral vision Arthur saw Anna raise the bow and aim—and shoot.  A small, abrupt screech and thud: Caradoc bolted upright, knife in hand; Merlin rolled over.  A dead shrew lay near the cold ashes.  Annoyed, Caradoc lifted the skewered shrew by the bolt’s shaft and tossed it to Anna—it landed before her feet where she ignored it.  Sounds of shuffling and a short cough came from the rest of the camp as the men resettled, realizing there’d been no alarm.  Bors lowered his eyelids and turned his thoughts inwards again.  Leodogran’s pavilion remained undisturbed.

Anna put aside her crossbow and retrieved her bolt from the shrew’s carcass.  

“When I was a child,” she confided suddenly,  “I stole my mother’s brush.  It had mother-of-pearl backing and I wanted it—which made it mine.”  She kicked the shrew away.  “My mother thought her new servant-girl had taken it, so the girl got the lash.  I think the brush was special to my mother, but I don’t remember why.  Maybe it wasn’t.”  She turned the bolt in her hands.

“What did you do?” Arthur asked.

“Returned the brush; confessed—at first just to my mother.  But the girl was still exiled; she was still treated like a thief.  I hadn’t think anyone could get hurt—it was just a brush.  I wanted to set things right; and I’m the Princess—the Princess gets what she wants.”

“You told your father,” Arthur guessed.

“I requested an audience—I demanded an audience.  I was so proud of myself for following proper ceremony for the King to right a wrong.”

“Did he?”

Anna scoffed.  “No.  The Queen would have had to apologize to a servant, and everyone would know.  The girl had left quietly, without scandal.  I fixed that.  And I caused enough embarrassment that Essylt—my nursemaid—quit in disgrace.  Just like that.  Gone—no one told me where.  But she took the scandal with her.  Of all the stupid . . .”

Anna trailed off and collected herself. 

“Who knew servants could quit,” she continued.  “When I went to Lindum, I thought I hated Essylt: for years I had felt guilty for ruining her life.  But she acted like what I’d done was her fault—her doing—as if I was supposed to obey her and she’d failed to control me.  As if I wasn’t a real person.”  Anna shifted uncomfortably, and realizing that Arthur was watching her, picked a leaf from a nearby sapling.

“She’d cared for you since you were a baby?” Arthur asked. 

Anna wiped the tip of the bolt on the leaf and nodded. 

“Did you find your answer in Lindum?”

She shook her head.  “I tried again at Eburacum after Cara showed me how to act—but no.  Maybe I wasn’t asking the right question.  Do you know,” Anna leaned confidentially toward Arthur, “that father wanted to knight Cara for looking after me?”

“He knew what you were doing?”

“I told him.  Afterwards.  He understands, Arthur, the things we sometimes just have to do,” Anna met Arthur’s eyes with this promise he was afraid to accept.  “You wanted open eyes,” she said; he looked away; and she gave up.  “For what it’s worth,” Anna leaned her head against his shoulder, “you’re not what we thought the son of Uther Pendragon would be.”  

They sat silently, and when Arthur looked down at her cheek against his hauberk, she was asleep.  He thought of rolling her head off the cold chainmail, or of moving her next to Caradoc, but he did neither.  He let her weight grow heavy against him as he watched the camp, noting everyone’s position and listening for a lookout’s signal.  Only nocturnal creatures stirred.  He felt Lancelot, on guard just beyond the perimeter of the camp, watching him, and slowly he yielded, closing his own eyes as Lancelot returned his attention to the forest—

To find a woman—dark-haired, in a red dress—suddenly standing in front of him—Lancelot felt as though he’d smacked into her, but she was unperturbed.  He sighed with relief and recognition.

“Is he everything you thought he would be?” she asked.

“I think you already know how _that_ turned out,” he replied.

“Leodogran would accept you,” she said. “Become a knight of Cameliard.”

Lancelot, once again—for it was becoming a habit—had no response to give.

“Or you could wait for King Arthur,” the woman said.  “But that would mean wishing for a man’s death, and what would you do in the meantime?”

“I can help those in need,” he said, trying to ignore her insinuation.

She cupped his cheek gently—a move reproachful and maternal—and he noticed, even in the obscuring night, hints of grey speckling her hair and undoing the eternal youth he’d always assumed she had.  A wave of loss cascaded over him and he looked away from her face to the familiar blue serpent tattooed around her bare wrist.

“Stay in Cameliard,” she instructed, letting her hand fall.  “And if you love Guinevere, send for her.  Learn happiness.”  She turned around as if to leave.

“Ninianne,” Lancelot said, asking the question he knew she wanted: “Why are you here?  You haven’t checked up on me in two years, and you don’t order me to do anything—you tell me to determine my own destiny.  Why come now?”

“I have a soft spot for Leodogran and don’t want to see Uther destroy him.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to manipulate the affairs of kingdoms.”

“The sorcerer Blaise, then.  He is a friend.”

“Is Cameliard doomed?”

“Perhaps.  It depends on what Uther knows and whether he cares.”

 

~*~

 

Morgana sat on her pillows at the head of her bed, hugging her knees.  The copious space of her chambers crushed her—imprisoned her—made her feel stranded from the nearest friend.  Under her pillows she’d stashed the small satchel Morgause had given her—it felt like pebbles and smelled like lavender.  It would make smoke and knock out anyone not born with magic, nothing more—Morgause promised.  Morgana believed her.

Except that she didn’t want to sneak Pelleas out of prison—she wanted to watch him burn.  She wanted him afraid and in pain, as Ettare had been—gods help her: she wanted what Uther wanted.

The spell for the satchel was simple enough.  Morgause had told it to her, but Morgana wasn’t sure she could do it.  _Why do you think you’re not strong enough?_ Morgause had said.  _Why do you think you’re alone?_

And what did Uther truly know about justice anyway.

 

~*~

 

Merlin and Lancelot sat shoulder to shoulder in front of the morning fire.  Lancelot trimmed his nails with a knife while Merlin stared at the closed flaps of Leodogran’s tent.  Arthur and Anna had been in there since dawn, ostensibly breakfasting—but everyone else in the camp had long since finished their meals, and were now milling about restlessly. 

“I saw you talking to the priestess last night,” Merlin said quietly.  Lancelot jerked his head in surprise; he quickly turned his gaze back to the fire but knew Merlin would continue.  “Is she worried I’m breaking the agreement, or is she actually here to help?”

“Wouldn’t a priestess talk directly to you about an agreement?” Lancelot said.

“So Ninaeve wanted to talk to _you_ about something?”

“I don’t know Ninaeve,” Lancelot said into the fire.

“Why are you suddenly being so coy?” Merlin prodded.  “You know a priestess,” he continued buoyantly.  “I should’ve realized you had friends with magic—you accepted me too easily.”

“M—” Lancelot started to reply; he glanced at Merlin, at the surrounding camp.  Bors kicked the ashes and dead embers of the fire in front of the King’s pavilion; Caradoc tended her horse; Sir Taran of Camelot returned from taking a leak and someone was crunching an apple.

“ _A_ priestess, Merlin,” Lancelot finally said.  “I know _a_ priestess.”

“Not Ninaeve,” Merlin guessed.

“Her name is Ninianne.”

“Sisters,” Merlin said, recalling something Blaise had once said.  Threads began to fall into place, and for a moment Merlin felt he knew the pattern, the way he knew Arthur’s daily routine, the way he knew every path that could lead him to his childhood home.  It was an enticing thought, as satisfying as the knowledge that Lancelot had connections to magic only just now glimpsed.

“You know a priestess,” Merlin elbowed Lancelot playfully, a smile seizing his face.

“Ninianne saved me,” Lancelot said.  “Is your agreement to stay in Cameliard?”

“My destiny is with Arthur,” Merlin replied solemnly.  “A priestess would know that.  If you care about magic, why did you come to Camelot to serve Uther?”

“So you also think I should stay in Cameliard, even though you’re not.”

“I have to follow my Destiny,” Merlin explained.  Lancelot contemplated his fingers.

“Camelot is not about Uther,” Lancelot finally said, standing.  Arthur and Anna had just emerged from Leodogran’s tent, wearing heavy expressions.  All eyes watched them but then whipped quickly around as Arthur and Anna rejoined Merlin and Lancelot.

“So what’s the plan?” Merlin asked.

“A game of chess,” Anna replied.

“Naturally,” Merlin said.

“Leodogran is depending on the fact that there’s no honor in slaughter,” Arthur said with frustration. 

“On the other hand,” Anna said, “who’s to say it was a slaughter if you’re the only one left to tell the tale?”

“ _I_ would say!” Arthur snapped.

“You don’t think Leodogran’s plan will work,” Merlin said.

“It will work,” Anna insisted.

“It’s insane,” Arthur said.

“It’s strategy, Arthur,” Anna retorted.  “We can’t win a war, so my father is changing the terms.”

“It won’t work,” Arthur said.

“It will.”  Anna snared Arthur’s gaze so intensely that Merlin and Lancelot dared not budge.  “It has to,” Anna whispered, turning to join Caradoc with the horses.

When she was far enough away, Arthur approached Lancelot: “You’re _sure_?”

“I’d bet my life,” Lancelot said.

 

~*~

 

Ettare’s maidservant opened the door for Morgana.  Ettare concentrated on the letter she was writing and only looked up when the maid cleared her throat.

“Lady Morgana,” Ettare rose from the table and excused her servant.

“Am I interrupting?” Morgana asked once they were alone.

“I was just answering an invitation from an aunt in Cambria.”

“I can imagine Camelot seems unfriendly these days,” Morgana said.

“Not at all—Camelot’s a wonderful place; it’s my home.”

“Of course—I just meant that after what happened to you, I can understand wanting a change of scenery.  I’ve often thought about it myself.”

“Actually, I’m sending my regrets.  Scenery doesn’t much matter with a man like Pelleas around.  Once he’s dead . . .”

“Does the reason for his execution matter?  You’re not offended that he’s only being executed for using magic and that your suffering is already forgotten?”

Ettare turned her back to Morgana for a moment.  “I’ll never forget what he did to me,” she said.  “I wish I could.  And I would rather everyone else did forget than have them leer at me with pity.  No—I don’t care why Pelleas dies, or how—just so long as he dies.”

“Well at least you have protection,” Morgana said.  “Someone must like you if they risked using magic to save you.”

“So it seems,” Ettare sat down bitterly.  “Is there any word on who this other sorcerer is?”

“I don’t know.  The only witch I know of is Morgause.”  Morgana paused as Ettare’s expression darkened.  “Who probably had nothing to do with any of this,” Morgana continued.  “That’s my point—who would ever admit to using magic, even to save a life, when _this_ is the response?”

Ettare sat silent, staring at the stones of her chamber floor.  Finally she said, “Whoever saved my life—I am grateful.  But the witch Morgause is no friend of mine; she killed my brother.”

“When she challenged Arthur,” Morgana sat down beside Ettare.  “I remember.”

“When those who do prove themselves sorcerers use their magic for such ends, is _this_ response any wonder?  Pelleas deserves to die.”

“Then he will die,” Morgana stood.  “Deservedly.”

 

~*~

 

“I didn’t think you meant literally,” Merlin said to Arthur as Leodogran’s squire and two knights set up a makeshift table and chessboard in the middle of the road.

Arthur gave no reply, which worried Merlin.  Leodogran’s men had moved two small flat stones from a nearby circle to act as legs, and were now placing a third on top for the table.  They stood back as the King pondered the placement.

The escort was still too close to Cameliard for Arthur’s comfort, but time was not a friend, as Leodogran had pointed out.  At least the three stones—which looked like a baby stone dancer that had run away from its giant parents—blocked the road, though such an obstacle would be easy for an army to remove.  The squire placed the chair—which was more of a short stool—by the small square stone arch, facing the direction of the advancing army.  Satisfied, Leodogran sat down and arranged the chess pieces.

“This will be a disaster,” Sir Taran muttered—but Arthur did not reprimand him.  Instead, Arthur ordered a fire lit behind Leodogran.  In the middle of the road.  Water, food and dice were encouraged as leisure, but only Camelot knights need participate.  As for the knights of Cameliard, two had disappeared into the forest, as had Anna—with Lancelot and Bors by her side—and Caradoc, each taking advantageous positions.  The remaining six knights from Cameliard set up a perimeter around the camp—and they too put on a semblance of repose, lounging against the trees or whittling a piece of wood, and one man had even removed his saddle and was brushing his horse. 

A man known for riding bareback.  As though one with the horse.  At great speeds.

The camp settled, trying to create an illusion of ease, but no one believed it.  Leodogran’s eager squire remained tense and jumpy.  The dice rolled intermittently.  Merlin sat next to Arthur on a modest-sized dead tree trunk someone had dragged into the road.  Arthur drew in the dirt with a stick—what looked like combat formations—and Merlin scanned the forest for Lancelot or Caradoc, or even the Princess, spotting no one.

The hours dragged by.

Arthur would erase one drawing with his foot and begin again.

Three deer bounded across the road.  No one cared.

Young Sir Madoc of Camelot threw stale bread to birds daring enough to approach.

Leodogran played chess alone.

The day grew warm.  They all were sweating.

Merlin had lain down on the ground, lounging against the log, when Arthur sprang to his feet, jostling the log and disrupting Merlin’s meditation.

“If you don’t mind, Prince Arthur,” Leodogran said to his chess game.

“What is it?” Merlin stood.

“ _Shh_!” Arthur hissed.  Merlin strained his senses, as did each of the knights.  Finally, after an aeon of seconds, the sound of horses drifted to Merlin’s ears.

“You heard that?” Merlin asked in astonishment.

“He saw the scout run off,” Sir Cadoc—suddenly nearby and presumably awaiting instruction—said.  “King Uther will know we’re waiting for him.”

With a sudden, desperate urgency, Arthur threw down his sword.

“Prince Arthur—” Cadoc objected.

“Get comfortable,” Arthur ordered, tearing off his hauberk.  He seized the discarded dice that no one had really been playing and pulled Merlin to the ground and rolled.

“Arthur,” Leodogran said, concentrating on his game, “You need to be armed.”

“There will be no fighting today!” Arthur snarled; Leodogran glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but made no other comment.  The men fidgeted.

Merlin picked up the dice, rattling them in his hands.  He made no wager, offered no money, nor favor; neither he nor Arthur won anything.  They simply took turns rolling as the men stood around them anxiously, listening to the loud clinks and clatters growing louder still. 

Uther rounded the bend as if falling into an ambush—instinctively he checked his horse—but quickly recovered, continuing forward, though at half his prior pace.  All eyes watched Uther—except Leodogran.  Uther raised a hand and halted his men and crossed the remaining distance alone—and the closer he came, the greater the disgust on his face.

“You always were a fool, Leodogran,” Uther sneered from his horse’s height.

Leodogran moved a white knight and rotated the board—now he was black.  Arthur stood.

“Fool enough to let a strange knight bring a vicious manticore to my gates,” Leodogran said, moving black.  “Fool enough to let him withhold his name,” he rotated the board, “and fool enough—this is the truly stupid one—to let him remain in my kingdom harboring his secrets so that his injured men could heal.”  Leodogran picked up the white king and studied it.  “Because I believed him to be an honorable man.”  He put the white king back and moved a pawn.  “I was greatly deceived.  You may have your men, Uther.”

“Just like that?” Uther asked suspiciously.

“Or you can strike me where I sit,” Leodogran threw wide his arms; his men jerked with alarm.  Arthur raised a hand to calm them and hurried to his father, grabbing the horse’s bridle.

“We don’t need a war,” he said quietly to Uther.

Uther ignored Arthur and stared down at Leodogran, who’d returned his attention to his solitary game.  Uther surveyed the surroundings: his own knights in the road, nowhere near as relaxed as they pretended to be; the six knights of Cameliard on the perimeter, wary and taut; the forest on each side of the road; and King Leodogran, exposed in the open.

“You expect me to believe this is a peaceable envoy?” Uther said.  He pulled back on the reins, forcing Arthur to release his grip.

“Is my massive army behind me?” Leodogran replied to the board.

“Two of your men are hiding behind trees.”

“They’re not as foolish as I.  You have your son back, safe; you’ve accomplished your mission—what more do you want?  I won’t move, if your wish be to slay an unarmed old man.”

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur interrupted, and to Uther, added: “He didn’t know who I was until you exposed me,” which finally got a reaction.  Leodogran too glanced up—Arthur was on precarious ground.

“And when he did find out,” Arthur continued, “his only reaction was fear.  He knows Camelot can conquer Cameliard and he’s afraid you’ll slaughter everyone in his land—are you going to prove him right?”

Uther jumped off his horse and rounded on Arthur: “Do you really think his six men in the woods are cowering in fear?”

“Three,” Arthur corrected.

“Don’t make—”

“Two are women; one is Lancelot—he’s with me.  You remember Lancelot? Dark hair, honorable—terrible fighter, naturally, since his lineage is rubbish.”

Uther calmed for a moment.  “I didn’t think he’d find you,” he admitted.

“And he did it without causing a pointless war,” Arthur said; Uther’s features immediately hardened again.

“Leodogran’s not so stupid as to approach an army unprotected—his two witches in the forest are waiting his signal to strike,” Uther glanced around warily.

“They’re not witches,” Arthur said impatiently.  “Leodogran’s not so stupid as to antagonize you by throwing magic in your face.”

“Have you gone stupid?” Uther hissed.  “Or forgotten everything I ever taught you about magic?”

“I remember every story you told me about magic,” Arthur replied.  “And I always wondered why you didn’t destroy such an evil kingdom or others like it—I figured you didn’t want to make enemies of every king in between—clearly not a concern today.”

Uther fumed silently, giving a look that used to silence Arthur.

“There’s more magic in Camelot than Cameliard,” Arthur continued.  “You know Leodogran’s no fool; he’s a bookkeeper burdened with kingship.”

Leodogran again glanced up briefly; he bowed his head back to the board, but made no further move.  Neither Arthur nor Uther noticed him, and Arthur went on:

“Sorcerers don’t flock to Cameliard because its plagued with wars—wars its neighbors look on as an afternoon’s entertainment.  Are you also surprised that Leodogran still stands?  Did you think someone would destroy him for you?”

“You’re right,” Uther said, “I didn’t consider him a threat—a mistake I can now rectify.”

Leodogran bolted to his feet.  His men moved for their weapons, but the knights of Camelot stayed them, reassuring them that Arthur would keep his word.

“What about Camelot?” Arthur asked, unable to entirely hide a note of desperation.

“Now you’re just embarrassing me,” Uther sneered.

Arthur ignored the gibe.  “I meant it: there’s more magic in Camelot than here; Leodogran’s no threat to sorcerers—you are.  Camelot is their target; Camelot is the prize; and you leaving with the army gave Pelleas the opportunity he needed.”

Uther perked up at the name, finally giving Arthur his undivided attention.

“Pelleas—what do you know about Pelleas?”

“I know he’s a powerful sorcerer harassing Camelot while we waste time on half-forgotten hatreds,” Arthur replied.

“You planned this,” Uther accused Leodogran.

“Enough!” Arthur erupted; Leodogran sat down, giving Uther a look he might give a petulant child.  “Lancelot told me about Pelleas,” Arthur said to his father.

“And how did he find out?” Uther said, staring suspiciously at Leodogran.

“He’s good,” Arthur said, but another voice rose above his: “Why not ask him yourself—” Anna stepped onto the road as though walking into a party (Leodogran shot up instantly), escorted by Bors and Lancelot— “instead of indulging in paranoia?”  She threw her helmet at Uther’s feet.

Leodogran’s six men drew their swords, as did Arthur’s—but not against the knights of Cameliard; rather, their instincts were to protect the Princess and for a second they stood against their own king—and a second later, abashedly lowered their swords.  Uther stared at Anna, trying to assess her.

“You brought your daughter?” Uther sneered at Leodogran, whose emotion, at last, showed on his face.

Anna stepped closer to Uther and drew her bow taut, an arrow aimed at Uther’s eye. Beside her, Bors grasped his sword firmly, confident of his foe, but Lancelot was less certain and waited upon Arthur’s cue.  Caradoc was nowhere in sight.

“Anna stay—” Arthur started.

“Don’t insult me, Arthur,” she said, staring steadily at Uther.  “King Uther spotted us.  And yes,” she replied to Uther, “I came.  Would I have been safer behind my castle walls?  Because your arrows magically avoid killing women and children?  Because you’re merciful?  Because you can distinguish a witch from an ordinary woman on sight?”

Uther said nothing; but nor did anyone else speak.  Anna continued:

“It’s a simple deliberation: Do you care about your kingdom?  If no sorcerer is there, so what?  You’ve retrieved your son—which was your intent—and filled us with fear; you’ve won.  But if a sorcerer is in Camelot, and you care more about proving your military might, you lose.  Your kingdom falls while you conquer us, but victory brings you nothing: Cameliard is too small, has no strategic position, no great wealth of which to brag, and those who practice magic are too few and weak to warrant an entire siege—you couldn’t even lie to yourself that you’d hobbled magic—else you would have been here long ago.”

Arthur approached her, Bors and Lancelot moving for him, and placed his hand on her forearm, guiding her bow down.  She let him lower her weapon, but at no point took her eyes off Uther.

“Pelleas is in Camelot,” Arthur said to Uther.  “I promise you.”

Uther stared at Leodogran, and the debate that raged in his mind showed on his face.  At last he shouted, “We camp here!” and turned to Arthur: “You’ve given him a day; he’d be wise to make the most of it.”  Then he remounted his horse and rode through his knights to find an ideal camping ground.

Arthur remained, looking defeated—it was up to Merlin to gesture to the knights of Camelot to follow their king.  As the knights mounted their horses, Anna retreated into the forest, one backward-footstep at a time, Bors glued to her side.  Lancelot hesitated, rooted to road where he stood.

“Sire,” Arthur went to Leodogran as his men slowly passed by.

“That’s it, Arthur,” Leodogran said sadly.  His squire rushed to pack up the chess game, and a knight brought over the king’s horse.  Leodogran mounted and gave Arthur one last look before riding away.

 

~*~

 

Morgana peered around the corner, down into the stairwell leading to the prison cells.

Deserted. 

She breathed heavily, hearing each inhale like a sandstorm—but no one saw her.  Everyone but the nightwatch was asleep.  She squeezed Morgause’s satchel, Morgause’s questions reverberating through her mind.  Carefully, nervously, she presented the bundle on her flat, outstretched hand; and then she recited the spell—perfectly.  She felt a surge of energy flow from her as the magic took effect.  Thick white smoke erupted from the satchel, filling the air around her, spreading—throbbing outward.  With a hand against the wall for guidance, she descended the stairs and nearly tripped over the guard passed out at the bottom. 

She dropped the satchel and ran to Pelleas’s cell, pausing only to grab the keys.

Pelleas’s cell was untouched by smoke, though it reeked of animals and rotten food.  Pelleas stood against the far wall, as if he had chosen the spot.  His bare feet were planted shoulder-width apart in a blanket of straw, shackles encircling his ankles, and he clasped his bound hands behind his back.  Chains led from wrists and ankles to the wall behind him, limiting his movements to a few feet.  His mouth was gagged but his eyes were bright and his head high; he watched Morgana open his cell and storm towards him—she scratched his lips as she ripped the gag from his mouth.  Then she held up a key for him to see—and tossed it on the straw behind her.

“Lady Morgana,” Pelleas said.  “I’ve been expecting you.”

“And do you also expect me to be impressed—or frightened?”

“Do you really think you’re worth the effort of either?” Pelleas said, bored.  “However, I am the only person likely to answer your questions.”

“I have no questions for _you_ ,” Morgana sneered in Pelleas’s face.  “I just have two words: Run fast.”  

Morgana spun around, heading towards the cell entrance and the wall of white smoke.

“You really think sister Morgause is going to get me?” Pelleas called to Morgana’s back—she halted and glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh,” Pelleas laughed.  “You think Morgause has it in her to mete out Justice—how ignorant.”

“Morgause is not your sister.”

“Never said she was.”  Pelleas’s eyes flashed gold, and the key lifted from the straw and floated toward his ankles.

Morgana tried not to care about the ease with which Pelleas used his magic.  “You will pay for what you’ve done,” she said.

“To an innocent woman—yesyes.”  His feet free, Pelleas then unlocked his wrists.  “Since you have her side of things, you of course must know the whole story.  Tell you what: you give little Morgause a message for me, and I promise I’ll never come near Ettare again.  You have my word.”

“Speaking of worthless things.”

Pelleas stepped toward Morgana, smiling self-satisfied.  “Tell Morgause the priestess’ toys are not for her.”  With that, he vanished.  No sound, no spell, no incantation, no disturbance of the surroundings—just a quick fading before Morgana’s eyes, leaving her alone in a stinking cell and a hallway saturated with thick white smoke.

 

 

~*~

 

Lancelot exited Uther’s pavilion.  The camp was a mile away from the rendezvous with Leodogran, in a small glen—too small for the army of Camelot, which sprawled into the forest and hillsides.  Uther’s tent was on one such advantageous hillside.  Arthur deliberately placed his on the low ground amid the soldiers and cooks.  Many squires were sharpening swords; Arthur ignored them.  And he ignored the knights who watched him.  He watched his father’s tent where one by one the nine knights who’d accompanied him to Cameliard were summoned.  Some interviews were longer than others, and the whole process had lasted through the evening into the night.  Lancelot was the last.  When he left the pavilion, he sighed heavily and Sir Cadoc called him over.  Arthur watched him go.

“You’re mad that he came,” Merlin sat down and threw another small log onto the fire before them.

“He’d get the honor he deserves in Cameliard.”

“Maybe,” Merlin said.

“Maybe?” Arthur replied, irked.

“Of all the kingdoms, Lancelot came to Camelot.”

“And we turned him away.”

“But his destiny still lies in Camelot.”

“His ‘destiny lies’—what does that even mean?”

“It means that some things are meant to be; Lancelot’s destiny lies in Camelot.”

Incredulity permeated Arthur’s body and core; he could find no reply to what Merlin had just said—nor did he get the chance to look for one: a messenger had approached from the King.

“So am I enchanted?” Arthur asked as soon as he crossed the threshold into Uther’s tent.  The flaps slapped shut behind him and then fell motionless in the stilted air.

“You should have sent word,” Uther chided.  He had recently removed his hauberk and it lay piled on the table beside scrolls and ink and wine goblets and an empty, dirty platter.  Dry sweat stained Uther’s shirt, which hung loose over his trousers.  His sword and belt lay on the furs and blankets of his pallet.

“Would you have not brought the army if I had?”  Arthur stood unarmed, barely inside the entrance.  He’d had time to wash up, and looked less harried than Uther.

“I’d have sent help.”  Uther gulped the last drop of wine from one of the goblets.

“I didn’t need help,” Arthur moved forward, “I needed—”

“The instant you were found out—” Uther slammed the goblet down.

“I was found out!”

Arthur paused and Uther stared angrily.

“At least, the council, the King’s cousin, the Princess’s personal guard . . .” Arthur sat down heavily in one of the chairs.  “I made a deal with the council.  Behind Leodogran’s back,” Arthur said ruefully.

“What kind of deal?”

“That if I caused no harm to Cameliard, they would keep my identity a secret and I could leave in my own time."  Arthur sank further into the chair.  "Cameliard’s not what I thought a sworn enemy would be.”

Uther contemplated his son for a moment, then stuck his hand outside the tent, summoning a servant to clear away the dirty platter and goblets.  When the servant had left, he sat down across from Arthur.

“Leodogran is not a sworn enemy, Arthur,” Uther leaned back—comfortably, were it not for the seriousness of the conversation.  “You were right: he’s a man not meant to be king.  And there are always more pressing matters,” Uther indicated a recently-received message on the table.

“Pelleas.  How dangerous is he?”

“I thought he was dead,” Uther said, staring into the past.  “I chose to believe he was dead.  If he’s in Camelot . . .”

“We should leave at daybreak,” Arthur concluded, catching Uther’s eye and holding it—until Uther picked up a stylus and contemplated it.

“It seems I have no choice but to give respite to a sorcerer, one way or another.”

“Especially since you’re going to recall the rest of the army,” Arthur stood and looked down at Uther.  “The half you sent to come down on Cameliard from another direction in a couple of days as reinforcements, bringing the majority of the supplies—”

“And why am I going to do that?” Uther said sharply.

“Because even if Leodogran doesn’t hate magic, it doesn’t mean that magic runs rampant, or that sorcerers can do what they please with impunity.  Cameliard is filled with innocent people—we don’t need to be here.”

Uther evaluated Arthur—a penchant he’d developed during Arthur’s childhood; a penchant that had used to overwhelm Arthur with doubt and anticipation.  Even now, that look made Arthur nervous—there was so much more to lose than his father’s approval.

“Pelleas had a very powerful witch as his mistress,” Uther finally said.  “This was years ago—and perhaps I should have said that she kept him; she protected him.  He acted with impunity.”

“We’ll have to watch out for her, too, then.”

“She’s dead.”  Uther pulled a clean sheet of parchment in front of him.  “We leave at dawn.  A small contingent will remain near Cameliard— _because I say_ —I will not turn a blind eye simply because you had a good time.”

Arthur was dismissed.

 

~*~

 

Again, the gathered court; Camelot’s council entered in grim processional.  First, news from the King—a messenger had arrived in Camelot late the night before, but the news was not urgent.  Uther had entered Leodogran’s territory and did not anticipate a protracted siege.

Ulfius relayed this news with muted face and neutral voice.  No one cared—the news they heard was that their Prince would soon be home.  Uther was confident: Camelot’s spirits soared.  Ulfius quickly came to the second part.

He ordered a search for Pelleas, who had escaped.

Fear and outrage erupted, which the council made no move to quell. Lady Ettare looked as if she’d been punched; she visibly shook, and did not notice when Morgana put an arm around her for support.  Ettare noticed nothing.  Her maid reached a hesitant hand toward her elbow—and Ettare burst from the spot, charging out of the great hall, unaware of the crowd that parted around her.

“What would Uther do now?” Morgana taunted the council.  She spoke loudly enough for many to hear, but the court was discordant and refused to stay quiet.

“Camelot is strong!” Gylberd roared; the chatter subdued into murmurings.

“And we’ll be stronger once we fill our dungeons with everyone who ever laid eyes on Pelleas, even for a second,” Morgana said smoothly.  “Or who thinks a woman’s life matters.”

“Except that Uther does not give special dispensation to his friends, _my Lady_ ,” Ulfius finally lost his composure.  “Tear Camelot apart—find these sorcerers—both of them!”

“What are you doing?” Gwen whispered to Morgana as the court became frenzied.  Nobles talked amongst themselves, sending sidelong glances at the council and pointedly displaying their dissatisfaction.  “Are you trying to make things worse?” she added desperately as Sir Lamorack led Camelot’s knights out to systematically rend the kingdom.

Morgana turned narrowed eyes on Gwen.  “Worse?” she parroted.  “Open your eyes, Gwen,” Morgana stepped closer to Gwen, squashing the space between them.  “Or are you afraid to?” she said quietly.

Gwen stood immobilized between Morgana and Ettare’s maid, who’d been standing dejectedly behind Gwen, and who was now refusing to budge; the maid clung to Morgana’s words.

“You do realize that you spoke privately to Lady Ettare?” Morgana said.

Gwen did not know what to say.

“That’s what I thought,” Morgana spun around and marched away.

“If Lady Ettare had been a witch, you could’ve been executed for having dealings with her,” the maid said as Gwen stared at Morgana’s back.

“Is that why you accused her first?” Gwen retorted impatiently.  Another eavesdropping servant scoffed, but Gwen couldn’t identify whom; several were present.

“What would you have done?” the maid snapped back.  “Run to Merlin?  _Brave_ —too bad some of us don’t have personal saviors solving all our problems for us.  And we don’t all have Prince Arthur’s protection—he doesn’t even know most of us exist, but you don’t seem to, either.  I’m so sorry I’m not as _special_ as you, Guinevere, but since you suddenly care, no, it wasn’t Lady Ettare I was afraid of.”

The maid retreated angrily, but Gwen could think of no response, anyway.  She felt exposed—trapped by too many eyes that wouldn’t let her be invisible; trapped because she couldn’t go after Morgana; and trapped by her chores, which prevented her from going home. 

Merlin and Arthur were still so very far away.

 

~*~

 

Arthur twisted his gauntlets and glanced impatiently at the sun’s position: long past the eastern horizon, it was climbing steadily toward noon.  Arthur tried to adjust his horse’s bridle, but the horse was having none of it.  He looked up again at his father’s tent, which still obstinately loomed over the area.  His own tent had already been taken down—at dawn, as Arthur watched—but the tents of the rest of the army were only now, slowly, being packed up.  Arthur stood alone, an island of pent-up inactivity; everyone avoided him—even Merlin was elsewhere.  Something finally snapped and Arthur threw down his gauntlets—it was time to see what the hold-up was.

“Is Merlin going to be all right in Camelot?” Lancelot said quietly.  Arthur whirled.  Lancelot approached, fully dressed and ready to depart.

“Merlin has to return to Cameliard,” Arthur answered irritably.

“Oh,” Lancelot picked up Arthur’s gauntlets and tried to smooth out the abuse Arthur had inflicted on them.  “Does he want to?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter, Lancelot—we don’t always get what we want.”

Lancelot grabbed Arthur’s hauberk from a saddlebag and tossed it, “You should put this on—anything could happen between here and Camelot.”

Arthur caught it.  He yanked off his sword and belt, and shoved his left arm, right arm, head into the mail shirt.

“Are you after Merlin’s job?” he demanded.  “Since you clearly don’t want to be a knight anymore.”

Lancelot strapped a gauntlet onto Arthur’s forearm.  “Serve anyone willing to knight me?  How’s that different from being a mercenary?”

“Cameliard needs you, Lancelot.  Cameliard deserves you.”

“I’ll visit often, then.”  Lancelot strapped on the second gauntlet.  Arthur sighed.

“Would you at least deliver something for me?” Arthur asked softly.  “Please.”

Lancelot nodded and Arthur rummaged through his saddlebag.  Lancelot looked up toward King Uther’s tent and saw Merlin arrive—and realized that Merlin had not yet been interviewed.  Merlin stopped and took in the view offered by the hill and paused when he met Lancelot’s eye.  Lancelot gave a wan, brief smile to wish Merlin luck and then returned his attention to Arthur.

Merlin watched from the hill as Arthur gave two letters to Lancelot; then a squire cleared his throat in warning, holding open the flap of Uther’s tent.

When Merlin entered, Uther was examining his sword at eye-level.  He flicked an edge with his thumb, “Are you brave?” he said without acknowledging Merlin’s presence.

“To have met a sorcerer, or to return to Camelot afterwards?” Merlin replied; Uther looked up from the sword, his gaze sharp.

“Sire,” Merlin corrected himself, lowering his eyes to the ground.  “No Sire, I’m not brave.”

“The sorcerer’s apprentice is what the men tell me.”

“Yes, Sire.  I had to.” Merlin risked making eye contact.  “A priestess threatened the city if I didn’t—I had no choice.”

“Why did she want you to learn magic?”  Uther still held the naked sword, but his focus was now firmly on Merlin.

Merlin shrugged.  “I was afraid to ask.  To hurt Arthur, maybe?  If it matters, Blaise didn’t really teach me much.”

“Blaise,” Uther said thoughtfully, picking up an empty scabbard.  “I haven’t heard that name in twenty years.”  He sheathed the sword and placed it on the table.

“What?” Merlin feigned confusion.  “He wasn’t lying about living in Camelot before the Purge?”

“You assumed he was lying?”

“Well, yeah—I mean—he’s a sorcerer.  And he kept calling me stupid.”

 _Hmm_ , Uther suppressed a smile; Merlin buried his own amusement.

“Sire, I didn’t want to learn magic.”  Merlin put fear into his voice.  “Blaise only taught me medicine—and things he said were ‘foundational.’  I’m not a sorcerer.”

Uther studied Merlin.  “Did you enjoy learning medicine?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin shrugged and thought for a moment.  “A physician’s apprentice gets to eat at the King’s table,” he added meekly, lowering his eyes again.  “Sire.”

“I suppose he does,” Uther said in a gentler, contemplative tone.  “Go,” he finally said.  “And make sure Arthur’s dressed appropriately—I won’t have my war leaders throwing tantrums.”

Merlin bowed obsequiously and left, making sure he was well down the hill before enjoying his triumph.

 

~*~

 

Gaius’s door was ajar, so Gwen pushed it carefully open with her shoulder, so as not to disturb the food-laden tray she carried.

“How would you like a meal fit for a queen?” she tried to sound cheerful.

Gaius sat at his table, surrounded by books—some from his own shelves, but some clearly from Geoffrey’s library.  Gaius slammed a book shut and flipped through another, muttering to himself.  He didn’t find the information he sought and tossed the book aside; as he paused, he noticed Gwen.

“Morgana wasn’t hungry,” she confessed.  A half-empty plate sat on Gaius’s left.

“Then you might as well eat,” he said kindly, clearing a space for her.

Gwen sat down and picked half-heartedly at the food.  “Do you think they’re at war?” she asked eventually.

“I’m sure another messenger will arrive by tonight,” he answered.  “Then we’ll know.”

She nodded to her plate.  “How did Uther succeed—if sorcerers are so powerful?”

“You’re worried about Pelleas.”

“He just walked out of the dungeon.”

“It certainly seems that way,” Gaius placed one book atop another, so as to create a neat pile.

“Do you think he’s gone for good?”

“I think we’ll find that out soon.  At least we’ll have Merlin—and Arthur by then.  Hopefully.”

“Have you ever known anyone with magic?” Gwen asked, rearranging her food, half-lost in her own thoughts.

“A long time ago.  Before the Purge.  Why do you ask?”

“Lady Ettare’s maid.  She accused Ettare of magic.”

“I’m sure Alethea did what she thought was right.”

“Alethea . . .” Gwen rolled the name around on her tongue.  “She was wrong.”

“Well, yes, Ettare did turn out to be innocent of magic—but there was a sorcerer at work.”

Gwen said nothing.

“Gwen, what’s the matter?”

“Everything’s different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—just that . . . everything’s . . . it’s like it changed when nobody was looking.”

“Yeah,” Gaius sighed, poking his own forgotten food.

~

Morgana pulled her cloak tight, hugging herself inside it.  She was not cold; she was not going out; she sat in front of a fire in her chambers and watched the flames devour the satchel.  Daylight bombarded the closed drapes, bleeding into the room.  Morgana thought of Pelleas and his imperturbable confidence—his arrogance—his irreproachable liberty—as if there’d been no distinction between the dungeon and the palace. Perhaps there wasn't.  She gripped the edges of the cloak, pulling it tighter about her.

~

Merlin heard a bee buzz briefly by his ear; he smelled pastureland and decomposing leaves; he smelled sweat and metal and heard muted voices as several knights ventured into conversation.  His horse’s muscles contracted and relaxed against his legs with a predictable rhythm, and Merlin felt alive in the moment.  Uther’s army possessed the road, but only in passing—as unthreatening and incidental as the bee.  Merlin thought of the Great Dragon’s words.  He sensed Arthur ruminating next to him.  He felt his Destiny approaching as the miles to home melted away.

 

_\--end--_


End file.
